


Heaven's a Distance, Not a Place

by Turcote



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 + 1 times, Aziraphale Is a Little Hedonist and Crowley Loves Him For It, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drug Use, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Its all soft hours here folks, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Pure Uncut Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), and also a bit of, because that’s my jam!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote/pseuds/Turcote
Summary: The Apocalypse has come and gone, and Aziraphale knows it's finally time to tell Crowley how he really feels. Only, finding the perfect time to confess is proving to be more difficult than he anticipated...Or, 5 Times Aziraphale Almost Confessed His Feelings + the 1 Time He Finally Did.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“We are stardust, we are golden, we are billion year old carbon, and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.”_  
>  \--- Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Aziraphale was going to tell Crowley how he felt about him. He _was_. There was simply no use in trying to deny it anymore. Besides, after everything that had happened, surely Aziraphale owed it to Crowley to be truthful with him. Although admittedly, Aziraphale’s relationship with the general concept of “truth” had been a little rocky as of late.

Before the Apocalypse-That-Almost-Was-But-Then-Very-Suddenly-Wasn't, Aziraphale had thought he understood the nature of truth -- some things were true and other things were not and it was not an angel’s place to question it either way.

Recently, he’d been forced to confront the reality that some of the things he'd thought to be true had actually been shockingly false, while other things he’d thought to be false had turned out to be rather true indeed. It was all a bit overwhelming, to have one’s worldview stretched and folded and reformed like a piece of taffy on a pulling machine. 

And yet, throughout the fabric of all his turmoil and doubt was a glittering thread of knowledge that managed to hold Aziraphale together at the seams despite the strain:

He was in love with Crowley, and _that_ was the truth. Aziraphale loved Crowley’s laugh and his eyes and his hair, loved the cocky way that he walked and the not-so-cocky way that he smiled at children and animals when he thought no one was looking. He loved the few scattered freckles that only appeared on Crowley’s cheeks during the hottest week of the summer, the way his hair changed color from burnished copper to flickering flame in the light. 

Aziraphale gave himself a shake. It was settled -- He would tell Crowley the truth about his feelings. Only...not today. Next week would certainly be a perfect time.

Of course, Aziraphale had told himself the same thing last week...and the week before that, and every week spanning back through the months since Crowley had invited Aziraphale to stay at his flat the night after the world didn't end.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t _want_ to tell Crowley. He did, and rather desperately at that. It was just that everything was going so _well_ between him and Crowley. They saw each other nearly every day now, something that Aziraphale’s past self had only dreamed about. 

He might have told Crowley that he loved him last week, but they’d had plans to go to the farmer’s market. The week before that they’d had tickets for a production of Into the Woods, and before that there had been a new exhibit opening at the National Gallery.

It was dizzying, this new and sudden abundance of Crowley’s attention. It was more than Aziraphale ever could have hoped for. What if Aziraphale said something foolish and Crowley backed away? Then there might not be any more dinners together at all, no more late nights in the bookshop or trips to the market. 

Perhaps if Aziraphale could just find the perfect time to tell Crowley. He had a list of possibilities that he kept in his pocket, but somehow every idea seemed rife with potential downfalls. 

Aziraphale took the list from his pocket and unfolded it for what must have been the hundredth time, hoping that this time one of the neatly written bullet point suggestions would present a clear and obvious solution. Should Aziraphale tell Crowley he loved him in St. James’ Park? That was awfully public, though. What about in the shop, when they were alone? Ah, but then wouldn’t it hurt all the more if Crowley rejected him in the place where Aziraphale felt most at home?

Well. Perhaps next week the ideal scenario would present itself. Aziraphale would know the perfect moment when it happened, surely. Yes, best to wait til then…

There was the sound of boots hitting the stoop outside, and Aziraphale hastily stuffed the list back into his pocket. He turned just in time to see Crowley kick the door open with a _bang_. The wind from outside caught the door and it slammed noisily into the wall as Crowley burst through, his dramatic entrance only slightly hindered by the large box in his arms. 

“Everybody out, there’s been a terrible gas leak!” Crowley declared, his face serious, his voice loud and full of authority. “Run while you still can!”

“There’s no one else here at the moment, although I appreciate the initiative,” Aziraphale said. “But do close the door, you’re letting in leaves.”

Crowley looked down at the small pile of yellow leaves that had drifted through the door along with the chilly autumn wind and were now swirling gently around his feet. 

“Thought you liked leaves this time of year,” he said, only a little petulantly. Still, he pushed his foot against the side of the open door and nudged it closed, but not before a miraculous little gust of air pushed the errant leaves back out onto the sidewalk.

“On the trees, yes, not so much in my shop...oh dear, do hold still a moment.”

Crowley paused in his path toward the backroom as Aziraphale came around from behind the register. There was a leaf in Crowley’s hair just above his left ear, its color caught halfway between orange and yellow. His initially curious expression went very still as Aziraphale moved closer, until the only thing separating them was the box in Crowley’s arms. 

He could tell Crowley now. It wouldn’t be hard-- he could open up his mouth and say _“I love you Crowley, I am **in** love with you, and I wouldn’t mind if you brought a hundred leaves through the door with you, truly.”_

“...Aziraphale?”

Crowley was giving him the sort of apprehensive look one tends to give when someone is staring at you in silence while standing very close indeed. Quickly, Aziraphale plucked the leaf from Crowley’s hair. Then, because he did want to be bold, even if he couldn’t be quite bold enough, he reached out and began to smooth down Crowley’s shirt collar where it had been flipped up by the wind.

Now. Aziraphale could say it now, as his hand traced along the collar’s edge, as one fingertip dipped a little below the line of fabric and brushed against the warm skin of Crowley’s neck--

Crowley made a small sound in the back of his throat that sounded like “Ngk”, and his footing faltered as if he’d somehow managed to trip while standing completely still. Aziraphale was forced to hastily catch the bottom of the box to keep Crowley from fumbling it. 

“I’ll just, um, go set this down then, shall I?” Crowley said hurriedly, readjusting his grip. He glanced up at Aziraphale, down at the box, then back up at Aziraphale once more before retreating into the backroom. 

Aziraphale watched him go. Did Crowley feel the same way about him? Aziraphale rather thought that he did. He certainly hoped the unmistakable blush on Crowley’s ears just now had resulted from interest instead of discomfort, but a certain insidious doubt still lingered. What if Aziraphale had been too slow, what if Crowley’s patience had finally worn thin and Aziraphale had lost his chance entirely? Or, worse, what if he’d never stood a chance at all? Aziraphale didn’t know how anyone could know Crowley and not love him, so Crowley would undoubtedly have his pick of potential partners; perhaps Aziraphale simply wasn’t appealing enough to make the cut? 

“Aziraphale, are you coming or should I have left a trail of leaves for you to follow?” 

“Just closing up, I’ll be there in a jiffy!” he called back. Thankfully, flipping the shop’s sign to CLOSED and turning the lock was always a highly satisfying activity, and it gave Aziraphale a moment to collect himself once more before heading back. 

“So, what do you have planned for us today, my dear?” he asked once he’d rounded the corner into the backroom. 

Since he and Crowley had become functionally unemployed, they’d both found themselves with a sudden and unprecedented amount of free time, and an even more unprecedented ability to spend most of it together. Sometimes Aziraphale still found himself looking over his shoulder, that familiar wave of fear and guilt rushing through him when he and Crowley went out into the open together. Then when reality caught back up with him it was like a sip of champagne, a rush of sugar that fizzed on his tongue and reminded him that they had fought for this, they had earned this. He could go anywhere he chose with Crowley now, could smile at him as brightly as he pleased without the constant threat of discovery looming over them like a stormcloud. 

It was new and intense and perfectly wonderful, and sometimes Aziraphale felt his heart might burst from the sheer pleasure of it. 

Recently, they’d started taking turns introducing each other to new experiences. Just last week Aziraphale had taken Crowley to a charity auction at a local historical institution, and Crowley had taken to it immediately; he and Aziraphale had polished off the contents of his flask and Crowley had enthusiastically spent entirely too much money on the ugliest porcelain angel that Aziraphale had ever seen in his life. 

Said angel was now sitting hideously on Aziraphale’s desk, watching with its lopsided porcelain eyes as Crowley opened the box. 

“Nothing too fancy today, just some more records,” Crowley said, pulling out one vinyl after another until he had a small stack in front of him. 

“That sounds lovely. I quite enjoyed the ones you selected for me last time. I listened to them again by myself just last night.”

“Yeah?” Crowley smiled at that, pleased. “Good to know you have at least some taste that overlaps with the last century. Now let’s see…”

Crowley fanned the records out on the table, perusing them.

“I figured we’d explore the 1970s today and I’ve got a few options that I think you’ll like...Dolly Parton, of course, Nick Drake, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young--”

“Oh, is that David Crosby and his friends?” Aziraphale interrupted, unable to stop himself. “I saw them perform at Woodstock. Such nice young men, and very talented.”

Crowley’s head snapped up so fast that his glasses slid down to the end of his nose.

“Wait -- you were at Woodstock? As in, _the_ Woodstock?”

Aziraphale nodded. 

“The very one. I don’t travel to the Americas much, but I was just so intrigued. All that talk of love and peace, you know. I had a splendid time.”

“Huh.”

Crowley’s eyes had gone a little soft, twin halos of gold over the edges of the dark frames. He didn’t elaborate on his statement, just gazed at Aziraphale quietly, his mouth quirking up in a loose, languid grin.

“What?” Aziraphale asked finally, breaking the moment’s silence. 

“Just thinking about how after six thousand years you still manage to surprise me, angel.”

Aziraphale could _really_ surprise Crowley, couldn’t he? He could tell him how, yes, he did have a splendid time at Woodstock, but he’d also spent the entire weekend thinking about how much Crowley would have enjoyed it, how much he wished Crowley were there with him. He could tell him that every part of his life was so much better when Crowley was there to experience it with him, how every difficult part was easier when Crowley was beside him. 

But...the evening together was already shaping up so well. There would be a better opportunity soon. Next week. 

“Let’s start with something you haven’t heard then, yeah?” Crowley asked, turning toward the record player. The machine was Crowley all over: sleek, black, and (Crowley assured him) state-of-the-art. “This one’s by Nick Drake, I think you’ll like it.”

“I still don’t know why we couldn’t just use my gramophone,” Aziraphale grumbled. Admittedly, his gramophone barely functioned even with the generous assistance of a miracle or two, but Aziraphale was still rather fond of it. Crowley, however, had insisted on bringing his own record player, and had apparently decided it should live permanently at the bookshop.

“Don’t get me wrong, the past has its appeal,” Crowley said with a flippant wave of his hand. He gently lowered the disc onto the turntable and started fiddling with various knobs and buttons. “It looks good on you, for example--”

Luckily, Crowley was completely engrossed in flipping on the power to the record player and its speakers, and couldn’t see Aziraphale’s blush.

“-- but there’s something I like about modern tech. It’s just so _human_ , you know?” He continued to fuss with the dials. “They’re always trying to come up with something new and better, even if it doesn’t always work out for them. Do you remember when they thought it would be a good idea to cook hot dogs by electrocuting them?”

“I have a vague recollection, yes. To be honest, I rather thought it might have been one of your diabolical inventions.”

Crowley chuckled. “It does sound like one of mine, doesn’t it? Solely humanity’s doing, however. They just can’t stop themselves from trying everything and anything.”

He pressed the final button with a flourish. The record started to spin, and the arm gently lowered itself down to the record. 

“And we should appreciate their efforts! Technology changes, and almost always for the better. Besides, if you don’t like it, we can always listen to something on your dingy old gramophone later.”

Aziraphale’s instinct was to protest, but when the needle caught and the first song began to play out of the speakers he had to admit it did sound much better than the tinny tone of his gramophone. 

Crowley made one more adjustment to the volume, then flopped backwards over the side of the sofa. He landed with his back flat against the cushion, legs dangling over the armrest. The position didn’t look particularly comfortable to Aziraphale, but it seemed to suit Crowley just fine; he wiggled a bit as he settled in, pleased, and his feet swayed back and forth in the open air to the rhythm of the music. It really was very nice music too; the gentle notes seemed to drift over the tops of the books as the sound filled the room.

A bottle of wine sat open on a nearby end table, airing out. Aziraphale picked it up and poured himself a glass, and Crowley held out a hand expectantly.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s sprawled, almost upside down form. “Are you even going to be able to drink it?” Aziraphale asked dubiously, his eyes tracking pointedly up and down Crowley’s form. Crowley’s very lanky, very _appealing_ form. 

Crowley’s only answer was two raised eyebrows and an insistent motion with his hand. He’d pulled off his glasses by now and Aziraphale could see that his eyes were closed, apparently to better focus on the music.

“Very well then, but I will not be pleased if you spill red wine on my furniture.”

He decanted another glass and handed it over, watching carefully all the while. If it seemed rather miraculous that Crowley was indeed able to drink from it _without_ pouring wine all over his face, Aziraphale decided not to comment. Instead, he took his own drink and sat down on the sofa, a few inches from Crowley’s head. 

They sat in companionable silence and listened to the music, with only the occasional slosh of wine adding any additional noise. It was only after quite some time that Crowley spoke. 

“Well, what do you think? Of the music, I mean.” 

Aziraphale looked down. At some point, Crowley had shifted farther down the couch. The top of his hair, just long enough that it was starting to curl, was only millimeters from brushing against Aziraphale’s thigh. He was gazing up at Aziraphale, golden eyes wide and sincere. Perhaps it was the wine, or the music, or something else entirely, but in that moment Crowley seemed so vulnerable, and so very, _very_ close. 

Aziraphale could tell him right now. He could say he liked the music very much indeed, but he’d like it even more if Crowley would kiss him while it played. Or he could reach down and tangle his fingers in those red curls and say the words that had been ricocheting in his mind for longer than he was willing to admit: _I love you my dear, my dearest, I am in love with you and I think maybe I always have been._

Aziraphale could see that path stretched out in front of him, as clear as day, and for one brief second he considered taking it. Then the song ended, and the few beats of silence before the next track started were enough to pull Aziraphale back to reality. What if he spoke too soon and ruined this moment, and every one that might come after? He should plan his words more carefully, he should pick a different time. 

And so, he chose the other path. 

“It’s lovely,” he said. “The music, that is. It’s a bit mournful, isn’t it? But still very bright...a hopeful sort of despair, one might say.”

Crowley’s face lit up at Aziraphale’s words, with a particular, guileless sort of smile that Aziraphale had been seeing more and more of ever since Armageddon had come and gone. 

“Yeah, I think so too,” Crowley said, and swung his feet back and forth. “It’s one of my favorites. I’m glad you like it.” 

Then, Crowley’s gaze seemed to catch on something and he tilted his head, squinting up at Aziraphale inquisitively. 

“Has your hair got longer?”

“Oh!” Surprised by the question, Aziraphale’s hand shot up to self-consciously thread through his own curls. “I suppose it has. I haven’t been to see the barber since...well, since everything.”

Crowley was still peering up at him intently and Aziraphale felt even more self-conscious. It was always a particular sort of rush, Crowley’s attention, even more so now when the two of them were mere inches apart, when Crowley’s eyes were bright and unguarded.

“What made you decide to grow it out?” Crowley asked. “I didn’t think you ever changed it.”

“I did once before, on a whim. Gabriel...didn’t care for it,” Aziraphale told him. He fiddled with his empty wine glass as he thought back on it, running one fingertip lightly around the rim. Gabriel’s opinion on the matter had not been flattering. “After that I didn’t really see the point in doing it again...until now.” 

“ _Gabriel_ is an _asshole_ ,” Crowley announced with a scowl. He punctuated his point with a wild gesture, nearly dumping his entire glass of wine on the floor. Crowley considered this, drained the rest of his wine in one long pull, then gestured again. 

“For what it’s worth,” he continued, and Aziraphale could hear the effect of the wine in Crowley’s voice, “I think it looks, um, nice. Good. It looks good.” 

Crowley suddenly had a look on his face as if he’d said more than he’d intended. Just then, the last few notes of the album ended. The record player clicked, and the disc continued to spin noiselessly on the turntable as the tonearm lifted, returning to its slot on the side of the machine. 

“I’ll get that,” Crowley said quickly, springing up awkwardly from the sofa. 

_What was that all about?_ Aziraphale wondered. Crowley could be so jumpy sometimes. Whatever it was, it didn’t last long; it only took a few moments for him to carefully slide the Nick Drake vinyl back into its sleeve and start a new record. 

“Up next is Carol King,” Crowley said enthusiastically, his confidence back in full now. “ _‘Tapestry’_ is quintessential, really good stuff. Oh, and I’ll top off our wine.”

He sauntered over and grabbed the bottle, his movements loose and slightly in time with the music. When he leaned down to refill Aziraphale’s glass, Aziraphale caught a whiff of the particular scent that he only associated with Crowley -- something like woodsmoke and cloves. It was _very_ distracting. 

“Ah, thank you,” Aziraphale said, and took a hasty sip of his wine. 

Now with his own glass refilled as well, Crowley dropped down on the sofa beside Aziraphale. This time, he was more or less in a sitting position, with just one leg thrown over the side, and one arm over the back. 

“So,” Crowley said, “Have you decided what’s on the docket for us next week? It’s your turn now, after all.” 

“Indeed I have!” Aziraphale replied excitedly. He’d been eager to tell Crowley all day, had in fact almost called him that morning, but had ultimately decided it would be more rewarding to wait. “The director of the Museum of London and I have formed a very cordial relationship over the last few years. They’re hosting an event next week and she invited me to come, as a friend of the museum. I’ve got a ticket for myself, and one for you. You’ll be my ‘plus one’.” 

Crowley’s eyebrow quirked up at the phrase ‘plus one’, accompanied by the slow, devilish smile that never failed to make Aziraphale’s heart beat just a little faster in his chest. 

“That is, if you’d like to go, of course,” Aziraphale continued, the tiniest bit flustered now. “It’s a costume party, so you’ll have to come up with something to wear.”

“Sounds great. I’m in.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale beamed. “Then it’s a date.”

He didn’t even realize exactly what he’d said until both of Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under the flop of red hair that fell over his forehead. 

“November second, I mean,” Aziraphale added quickly. “That’s -- that’s the date. November second.” 

“Welllllll, I’ll have to double-check my extremely busy social calendar, but I think I can make it,” Crowley drawled as his eyebrows lowered back to their original spot. “Pick you up beforehand?”

“Yes, please.” 

The autumn wind whistled against the window, but the buzz of wine in Aziraphale’s system was more than enough to keep him warm. He stole a quick glance at Crowley, who had once again closed his eyes as he leaned back and listened to the music. Oh, Aziraphale loved him. He loved him, and he _would_ be brave, and he _would_ tell Crowley how he felt. Crowley had risked so much for him over the millenia, _too_ much, and Aziraphale owed it to him to take this risk of his own. And he would...soon. Next week, perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Crowley loves Dolly Parton and no I will not be taking questions at this time. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! If you liked this first chapter I'd love to hear your thoughts! I have quite a lot of this story already written (and the rest of it outlined), so updates should be fairly regular. (Next chapter: costume party!) I anticipate the entire thing will probably end up being around 30k words or so. I also have other works that you could read in the meantime!
> 
> This story has an [accompanying playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2bYQDlGcSzUaAomXK4cxhJ?si=zzgiBt7LSTO-X7AkXSBZaA) because of course it does. Much like the tale itself, the playlist is 90% fluff and 10% moody pining. It roughly follows the plot of the rest of the story, so check it out if you'd like a sneak peek into what's to come! 
> 
> Oh, and the [hot dog electrocution machine](http://blog.kevmo314.com/presto-hotdogger.html) is extremely real.
> 
> As always, nothing but love for my friend and editor [charliebrown1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234). Charlie and I are always delightfully tangled up in each other's works, and this one is no exception.
> 
> You can find me [here](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, let's be buds!


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley was _never_ going to tell Aziraphale how he felt about him. Oh, he’d thought about it, certainly. He’d constructed entire universes in his mind where he confessed all of his carefully guarded feelings -- that he loved Aziraphale in a way he didn’t even know he’d been capable of until it had already blossomed in his chest, that throughout all of Crowley’s long existence he’d never felt more at home than when he was in Aziraphale’s company.

It was effortless, really, loving Aziraphale. For all his powers of imagination, Crowley couldn’t conceive of a universe where he knew Aziraphale and _didn’t_ love him. Concealing that from Aziraphale, however, was decidedly less effortless. 

Crowley couldn’t count the times he’d had to curl his fingers into a fist to keep from running them through Aziraphale’s halo of fluffy blonde curls, or the times he’d had to bite his tongue to keep the truth from spilling out-- _‘I love you, angel, I am in love with you.’_

Oh, Crowley knew Aziraphale loved him, in the vague sort of way that Aziraphale loved almost everything. Crowley liked to think that in the vast list of Things Aziraphale Loved he might be doing well enough to rank alongside crepes and Walt Whitman first editions, and honestly, that was still pretty good as far as Crowley was concerned.

So no, Crowley was not going to tell Aziraphale how he felt. Not now, not ever. It was pleasant enough as the occasional daydream, but fantasy was one thing and reality another, and Crowley had no trouble distinguishing between the two. 

Besides, right now Crowley’s reality was pretty fucking stellar on its own. Sometimes he still felt the urge to pinch himself to double check that he wasn’t submerged in a series of very pleasant dreams. Dreams where he and Aziraphale indulged in each other’s company in a way Crowley had never thought possible: where they went wherever they pleased and stayed for as long as they liked, where their biggest concern on any given day was choosing a restaurant, or resolving a pleasant argument over which century had produced the finest artwork. There were no more assignments to worry about, no imminent threat of discovery and danger, and Crowley had never been happier.

He’d also never, _ever_ been closer to slipping up and ruining it all. 

Aziraphale was just so much _bolder_ these days. On the one hand, Crowley was thrilled to watch as Aziraphale slowly marched farther and farther away from the rigid standards Heaven had imposed on him for so long, and from all the anxieties that went along with them. 

On the other hand, if Aziraphale didn’t stop coming up with all these new reasons to touch him, Crowley was going to combust.

Crowley supposed it was only to be expected. Heaven had always discouraged Aziraphale’s affection and fondness for the world around him, so of course he would start loosening up without their restraints. He and Crowley _were_ friends, after all. Friends touched each other. Friends fixed collars and pulled leaves out of one another’s hair and occasionally sat so close together on the sofa that their knees and shoulders knocked into each other.

It was totally normal, completely mundane, and absolutely more than enough to threaten the last bits of composure that Crowley had left. 

Well. He’d managed to make it through millenia without giving in and throwing his arms around Aziraphale and kissing him senseless, despite all of the times Aziraphale had looked so exquisitely kissable. If this was Crowley’s new normal (his wonderful, unbelievable, _frustrating_ new normal) then he would learn to adapt. Just like always. 

Tonight would undoubtedly be another exercise in practicing restraint, but Crowley could hardly say he minded. He’d been looking forward to the costume event at the museum ever since Aziraphale had given him his ticket. The ticket that officially made him Aziraphale’s ‘plus-one’. His...date?

“It’s not a date,” Crowley told his own reflection. He was in his bedroom, standing in front of the full length mirror where he’d been debating costume choices for the last three hours. “Not like that, anyway. You know how Aziraphale is. He didn’t mean anything by it.” 

His reflection looked briefly unconvinced. But Crowley had gone over the exchange a dozen times in his head and reached the same conclusion every time. _“It’s a date, then,”_ translated through Aziraphale’s signature mix of old fashioned and modern phrasing clearly meant: _“This is an opportunity to schedule an outing with my good, platonic friend.”_

It was the only thing that made sense. Aziraphale wouldn’t want to go on a _date_ with Crowley, or at least, not in the contemporary sense of the word. Still, Aziraphale _did_ want Crowley’s company, and that was plenty good enough for him. 

He smiled, and his reflection smiled back at him in return. There was still a wild sort of thrill that came with this new life, where he and Aziraphale could make plans without fear of repercussions. Where they could just _be_ in each other’s company for the pure joy of sharing time.

Crowley snapped his fingers and his clothing changed for the umpteenth time. He turned from one side to the other and studied himself in the mirror. Crowley didn’t consider himself to be particularly vain, but he had to admit that the black vest paired with a low cut white shirt was a good look for him. Still, a Han Solo costume probably wasn’t the best option — Aziraphale might not get the reference. 

Crowley pulled the newly-materialized blaster out of the holster and gave it a playful twirl around his hand before returning it. Back to the drawing board, then. 

A short but insistent _buzz_ sounded from beneath a tangle of sheets on Crowley’s bed a few feet away. He stepped over and dug his phone out from under the covers. 

Aziraphale’s name lit up the screen with a text message and Crowley found himself smiling again. It hadn’t been easy convincing Aziraphale to get a smart phone at all, much less getting him on board with texting, but he was making progress. 

Crowley swiped his finger across the screen and brought up the message. 

_Dear Crowley,_

_Good morning, my dear. I’m terribly sorry, but it seems you may need to meet me at the event rather than picking me up as we had originally planned. Someone on the decorating committee cancelled at the last minute, and the director asked if I could come early and assist. I do hope you will accept my sincere apology that we won’t be able to arrive together, and that you will allow me to make it up to you with brunch tomorrow._

_Sincerely,_

_Aziraphale._

The informal nature of texting clearly still eluded Aziraphale’s grasp. Baby steps, and all that. 

_No worries_ , Crowley sent back. _I’ll meet you there at 7. Brunch sounds great._

Then — 

_And remember, texting is more like a telegram than a letter._

A few moments later, his phone buzzed again. 

_Very well, then. See you tonight! You may choose where we go to brunch tomorrow._

Another moment, and then another buzz. 

_Dear Crowley,_

_How was that? Did I do it right?_

_Sincerely,_

_Aziraphale_

_P.S. — Don't forget your costume._

Crowley shifted the phone in his hand and caught a brief reflection of the fond, one might even say _sappy_ , grin on his face. Now _that_ was exactly the sort of thing he would need to keep under control tonight. For the moment, however, what Aziraphale couldn’t see wouldn’t hurt him. 

_Exactly right, angel. You’ll be a tech wizard before you know it. P.S. — you know I’d never miss a chance to dress up._

Aziraphale’s only reply to that was a long string of seemingly unrelated emojis. Crowley figured the odds were pretty evenly divided on whether or not Aziraphale had intended to send them at all. 

He tossed his phone back onto the bed and turned to face the mirror again. Another snap of his fingers had him scantily clad in head-to-toe sequins, although he didn’t really think that Cher was quite the vibe he wanted to cultivate tonight. Well, he still had a few hours to figure it out. He just needed to be done in time to run his final errand before the event. 

Something in Crowley’s chest fluttered at the thought of what his errand entailed.

“It’s a _good_ idea,” he insisted to his reflection. “And Aziraphale will appreciate it.” 

He spun in place on one foot. The sequined dress twirled around his legs, and by the time he was facing the mirror again it had morphed into a sharply tailored black tuxedo. 

Well, this wouldn’t work either. No one would know he was supposed to be James Bond, they’d just assume he’d been too dull to wear a proper costume, and that wouldn’t do at all. He’d need to decide on something else...

* * *

At exactly 06:57pm, Crowley parked the Bentley and made his way across the street to the museum. His errand had taken longer than expected, and he’d had to speed back to London even faster than usual. But he had what he needed. He patted his pocket for the fifth time in the last hour, just to reassure himself that the object in question was still there, then smoothed the fabric back down again. All was well, and now he just had to wait for the right moment to present it to Aziraphale. 

For now, however, it was time to enjoy the party. Crowley gave his tunic one final adjustment, threw his cloak over his shoulder, and strolled up the steps to the museum. A young person at the entrance took his ticket and waved him inside. 

“Just head down the hall and take a left,” they said with a smile. “You can’t miss it.” 

The short hallway was lined with photos and information about the history of the museum and its current staff, its stone floors and walls carrying the sound of music and conversation from up ahead. The music grew louder as Crowley approached before bursting into full volume as he rounded the corner into the event room. 

His immediate impression was of sky. The clear, cloudless night was visible through the enormous skylights above, and Crowley could even see a faint twinkle from the few stars determined enough to outshine the lights of the city below them. Below them, a crowd of people in costumes milled about, the sounds of chatting intermixing with the string quartet playing in one corner. A nearby waiter held a tray of champagne glasses, and Crowley took a glass as he passed by. He sipped it slowly as he leaned against a column, scanning the crowd. It was only a moment before he spotted Aziraphale about halfway across the room, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the sight. 

Crowley hadn’t really considered what Aziraphale might be wearing (he’d been far too worked up about his own costume to give Aziraphale’s much thought), but he knew from past experience that whatever it was, Aziraphale would look resplendent. He was absolutely right on that count -- Aziraphale looked _incredible._ He was dressed in a white toga that fell to just past his knees, with a vivid crimson shawl wrapped around his shoulders and fastened near his collarbone with an elaborate golden pin. His arms and legs were bare except for a small gold bracelet, and a pair of leather sandals that laced up his calves. It was more of Aziraphale’s skin than Crowley had seen in decades, if not longer, and he hastily forced his gaze upwards. Without all of his usual layers, it was even more obvious that Aziraphale’s hair was indeed getting longer, curling over his ears and at the nape of his neck. 

Aziraphale held a drink in one hand and gestured animatedly with the other, engrossed in a lively conversation with an older woman dressed as a pirate. Crowley couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the woman laughed, clearly charmed. She looked vaguely familiar and Crowley thought he might have seen her photo in the hallway. This must be Aziraphale’s director friend, then. 

Another few minutes passed as Crowley watched from the sidelines. Without really meaning to, he fiddled with the item in his pocket, spinning it around and around his finger and cursing himself for being so bloody _nervous_ about it. It was a good idea, he was sure of it. Well, mostly sure. It was the sort of thing that friends did, right? He guessed he would find out. 

Eventually, Aziraphale’s gaze finally turned in his direction. At first, Aziraphale didn’t seem to spot him, but when Aziraphale’s eyes finally landed on Crowley he did a very satisfying double-take, clearly thrown off by Crowley’s costume. After a brief moment, Aziraphale’s confusion quickly cleared and was replaced by a wide, brilliant smile. Crowley’s heart leapt into his throat at the sight and he cleared it hoarsely, telling himself it was just bubbles from the champagne. 

Aziraphale turned back to the woman and said something, patting her arm fondly and motioning toward Crowley. She glanced over in Crowley’s direction, then waved Aziraphale off with a knowing smile. 

Crowley managed to resist the urge to fuss with his clothing one more time, and focused on projecting an air of cool nonchalance as Aziraphale weaved through the crowd toward him. 

“Crowley, you’re here! Oh, you look just wonderful. Green suits you, my dear, you really should wear it more often.”

Judging by the flush in Aziraphale’s cheeks and the spirited tone of his voice, Crowley guessed that the glass of champagne in his hand wasn’t his first of the evening. Eager to catch up (and not at _all_ flustered by the sudden barrage of compliments), he drained the rest of his own glass and signalled a waiter to bring him another. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself. Marcus Aurelius, yeah?”

Aziraphale _beamed_ , his face lighting up as if Crowley had just told him the most wonderful news of his life. Crowley blinked, surprised.

“It was just a compliment, angel,” Crowley continued wryly, raising an eyebrow. “At least wait until I really turn on the charm to look so pleased, or I’m going to think you’re just blowing smoke up my arse.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but kept smiling.

“No, it’s just-- would you believe that everyone here has been complimenting me on my Julius Caesar costume? You’re the first one to get it right.”

Admittedly, Crowley did have the distinct advantage of having actually met Aurelius, but he didn’t think that was worth mentioning. Instead, he took the opportunity to give Aziraphale’s costume a conspicuous once-over.

“Ssseems obvious to me,” he drawled. Was it his imagination, or did Aziraphale’s cheeks flush a little pinker at Crowley’s attention? “Besides, I know you’d never come dressed as that tyrant.”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale agreed. He started to take another sip of champagne but paused, his eyebrows lifting with sudden realization. “Oh! You’re not wearing your glasses!”

“Yeah, uh, well, Robin Hood doesn’t wear glasses, does he? Thought they might ruin the effect.” Crowley shifted in place, suddenly self-conscious. “Don’t worry, I glamoured my eyes so none of your friends will notice. Wouldn’t want to scare them off.”

He had debated this point in front of his mirror for a solid half hour, taking his glasses off and then putting them back on, off and then on again before finally deciding to leave them behind. They really did clash with the costume, and besides, he had magic to shield his serpentine eyes from the humans, so there was really no need for them. Certainly there was no reason for him to feel exposed without the dark shades to hide behind, or to suddenly feel so vulnerable beneath Aziraphale’s intent, inquisitive gaze. And he _didn’t_. Feel vulnerable, that was. 

“Well, _I_ don't think they’re scary, I think they’re lovely,” said Aziraphale, very matter-of-factly. 

Crowley tried not to noticeably squirm at the praise. Aziraphale was being awfully forward tonight; just how many drinks had the angel already put away? Crowley was briefly reminded of that afternoon in the Bastille: another occasion where Aziraphale had seemed particularly bold, as if he’d been intentionally trying to test Crowley’s self-control. 

At least in France Aziraphale had been wearing his usual assortment of layers upon layers...unlike tonight. Aziraphale raised his champagne glass to his lips, and Crowley’s eyes dropped to his forearm, then over to the exposed section of his throat that usually hid behind a collar and bowtie. He lingered there for less than a second before tearing his gaze away. For fuck’s sake, this was going to be a long night if Crowley couldn’t even keep it under control over the sight of Aziraphale’s bare _arm_. 

Luckily, Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice Crowley’s momentary lapse of decorum. Something in the crowd caught his eye, and the next thing Crowley knew, Aziraphale had taken his arm in hand and was maneuvering him across the room. 

“Oi, angel, what--”

Instead of answering, Aziraphale just planted Crowley in front of the same woman he’d been speaking with earlier.

“Rebekah, I’d like you to meet my good friend, Anthony,” Aziraphale said happily. “Anthony, this is Rebekah, the museum director.”

“Oh, ah, hello,” said Crowley, still a little thrown from their sudden journey across the crowd. “Pleased to meet you.” 

He stuck out his hand and Rebekah shook it firmly.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she said, smiling. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Is that so?” Crowley smirked and flashed a grin at Aziraphale, who did a very poor job of attempting to cover up his resulting blush by turning to grab a bite-sized sandwich from a passing waiter’s tray. Then, “Great party, by the way.”

“Thank you, I’m quite happy with how it turned out,” she replied. “So tell me, Anthony, what do you do?”

“I’m--” Crowley started, then blanked.

 _Tell her you’re an astronaut_ , helpfully supplied the part of his brain that liked to cause problems on purpose.

“I’m retired,” he finished smoothly. “I mostly garden, these days.”

“That’s wonderful. You know, we’re getting an exhibit on the naturalists next month, I do hope you’ll both stop by.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale gave a little hum of agreement, his mouth full of cucumber sandwich. 

Another woman came up beside Rebekah and whispered something in her ear. Rebekah nodded, then turned back to the two of them.

“Sorry, duty calls I’m afraid. It was lovely to finally meet you, Anthony!” Then, to Aziraphale, “And I’ll see you at next week’s doner’s luncheon?”

Aziraphale assured her she would indeed see him then, and she gave them a little wave as she disappeared back into the crowd. 

Crowley immediately rounded on Aziraphale, who already looked resigned to what was coming.

“She’s heard so much about me, isn’t that _interesting_?” Crowley said, drawing out the last word. 

“Hardly,” Aziraphale replied primly, but Crowley could still see the lingering blush on his face. “You know how humans exaggerate.”

“Dunno, she didn’t seem like the exaggerating type to me,” Crowley continued, grinning in a way he knew looked particularly devilish. “What exactly did you say about me, hmmm?”

“I told her you were an incorrigible scoundrel, and a constant nuisance around my shop. Clearly she wasn’t paying attention or she wouldn’t have been so pleased to meet you.” Aziraphale grumbled, tilting his chin to hide his smile. 

“And here I’ve been on my best behavior for your fancy party,” Crowley said, his affronted expression the very picture of wounded pride. “Now that I know I’ve got a reputation to maintain I’ll have to be _extra_ incorrigible from here on out.”

He gave Aziraphale a little nudge with his shoulder, enjoying the way Aziraphale deliberately avoided his eyes, the blush deepening. Crowley knew he was bordering into flirting territory, but if Aziraphale was determined to torment him with his own forwardness tonight, didn’t Crowley deserve a bit of fun too? Besides, it was all harmless; as much as Crowley might like to think of Aziraphale _actually_ flirting with him, he knew the angel’s intentions were decidedly platonic.

Still, Aziraphale was clearly in on the game, which was more than enough to wind Crowley’s heart up like clockwork; he nudged Crowley back and couldn’t quite hide his smile.

“That’s quite enough of _that_ , you wicked thing,” Aziraphale admonished. “Ah look, there’s Santiago. He’s the head of antiquities, come along and I’ll introduce you…”

The next hour was a blur of introductions as Aziraphale pulled Crowley around the room. They continued to down glasses of champagne amid the scattered conversations until Crowley was faintly dizzy with it. The repeated refrain of _‘I’d love for you to meet my friend, Anthony,’_ was buzzing in his head, competing with a certain day at a bandstand when Aziraphale’s pained voice -- _I don’t even like you!_ \-- had twisted his heart in two. It seemed like a thousand years ago. It seemed like only yesterday. 

Aziraphale introduced him again and again, and Crowley’s head nearly spun with the novelty of it all. It was so different from everything he’d become accustomed to during the years of their Arrangement - the sneaking around, the overly complicated ruses, the understanding that no one else could know he and Aziraphale were _fraternizing_. Now, Aziraphale seemed about to burst with his eagerness to make sure everyone knew he and Crowley were here _together_ , and it filled Crowley’s chest with a warmth that had nothing to do with the champagne. Well, almost nothing -- he’d also had quite a _lot_ of champagne. 

Eventually, the steady stream of introductions slowed to a trickle, and then it was just the two of them, standing at the edge of the crowd. The string quartet had started up a lively composition Crowley didn’t recognize, and they listened for a few minutes in companionable silence.

Everything around them seemed to fuzz pleasantly into the background, a familiar sort of sensation that Crowley only ever felt when he was with Aziraphale. It was as if they were snug inside the landscape of their own personal snow globe -- a private world within a world. 

This was it, he thought. This would be the right moment. Should he just start speaking? Should he pull it out of his pocket and --

“Is everything all right, dear? You seem a little far away.”

Crowley twitched, startled. Aziraphale was looking at him inquisitively.

“Oh, er, yeah, I’m good. Great, even. Just -- just thinking.” 

_Off to a great start, Crowley_ , he groaned inwardly. _Extremely cool, very charming_. 

“Well that’s a dangerous habit for you, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, smiling. His hair had gotten mussed at some point in the evening, and a few stray curls stuck out over his forehead. It was very distracting. “There’s been all sorts of trouble that started with you thinking. What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Crowley blurted out and holy shit, if he didn’t pull this together in the next few seconds he was going to lose his nerve entirely and bolt out of the museum. “That is, I have a favor to ask you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t about the zoo again, is it? Because I’ve told you a dozen times, I am _not_ going to help you release any of the lemurs, I’ve spoken with them and they are _quite_ happy where they’re at--”

“No, it’s not about the blasted _lemurs_.” Crowley ran a hand over his face. This was _not_ going as planned and he was starting to wonder why he ever thought it would. “Just -- look, this is for you.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a loop of black ribbon. Hanging from the ribbon was an old-fashioned, copper key. Crowley held it out, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted. He looked at the key, then up at Crowley, then back to the key, momentarily speechless. 

“I’m going to be out of town for a few days next week for a gardening expo and I wanted -- I mean, I thought -- maybe you could stop by my flat and water my plants. If you have the time.” 

The words were coming out considerably faster than when he’d practiced them on his own, and Crowley fidgeted from one foot to the other. The motion made the key swing slightly from side to side as it dangled in the air.

Aziraphale cocked his head, bemused. 

“You’ve never asked me to water your plants before.”

 _Fuck_ , this wasn’t at all how this conversation was supposed to go. How was Crowley going to explain? How was he supposed to put into words that he’d been riding the brakes for so long, desperate not to go too fast but still aching to move forward, in whatever way Aziraphale would let him? How could he articulate that once the idea had gotten into his head he hadn’t been able to let it go because it just felt like the _right_ thing to do?

“Well, things are different now, aren’t they?” Crowley suddenly didn’t know where he should be looking, and wished very fervently that he’d worn his glasses after all. “But if you don’t -- shit, it was probably a bad idea, I’ll just--”

He started to pull the key back, flustered, but Aziraphale darted forward and snatched it out of the air so quickly that Crowley blinked, momentarily taken aback. 

“Nonsense. It’s a wonderful idea,” Aziraphale stated confidently, with a certain tone that told Crowley the matter was settled, thank you _very_ much, and Aziraphale would not hear another word about it.

“Well, good, then,” Crowley said, relaxing. “It’ll unlock the door, obviously, but it’ll also get you past all my wards.”

Aziraphale ran the loop of ribbon over his fingers, considering how the key dangled from it and caught the light. Crowley was suddenly very aware of how _close_ Aziraphale was standing; he’d crowded into Crowley’s space to grab the key, and hadn’t moved back. This close, Crowley could smell his cologne, along with something that was uniquely Aziraphale -- something like parchment and freshly baked bread. 

“And once you’ve returned to London…” Aziraphale said slowly, twirling the key over and over in his hands, “...would you like me to give it back?”

“Um,” said Crowley. 

His heart was beginning to thump loudly in his chest, and he said a silent prayer of thanks that the noisy crowd and music were more than enough to keep Aziraphale from hearing it, close as he was. 

“No, I don’t need it back. You should keep it.” He took a deep breath. “I _want_ you to keep it.”

_“Oh.”_

Crowley waited, but Aziraphale didn’t elaborate. Instead, he finally lifted his gaze from the key in his hand and looked up to Crowley. Aziraphale’s face was mere inches away, and Crowley couldn’t help but think of how easy it would be to cross that distance, to dip his head down and press his lips against Aziraphale’s. 

Every single internal alarm he’d rigged up over the millenia started to sound, shouting out a warning -- _too fast, too fast, you’re going to slip up and destroy everything good you’ve ever had_ \-- but he was rooted to the spot by the sudden intensity in Aziraphale’s eyes, shockingly blue beneath the warm gallery lights. 

“My dear, this is…” Aziraphale said haltingly. He closed his fingers tightly around the key and shuffled another fraction of an inch toward Crowley. “What I mean to say is...thank you.” 

He smiled, warm and lovely and sincere, and so _fucking_ close that Crowley thought he might discorporate on the spot. This was what he’d wanted, he reminded himself, he’d wanted Aziraphale to be pleased, but this was so _much_. He knew Aziraphale was more than a little tipsy, just being friendly, and he had no way of knowing the effect he had on Crowley, but for fuck’s _sake_.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about too,” Aziraphale said quietly. “And I do hope this is the right time…”

The sirens in Crowley’s mind continued to wail -- _stop looking at his lips you idiot, he doesn’t want you like that and you’re about to ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to you_ \-- and he shoved his hands into his pockets before they could reach out, before they could touch. 

It was, as it turned out, a futile effort. Aziraphale had apparently decided to demolish the last shred of Crowley’s crumbling restraint all on his own. Crowley sucked in a quick breath as Aziraphale reached out a tentative hand and brushed the tips of his fingers along Crowley’s arm.

“Crowley…” he started, and Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. He had no idea what Aziraphale was about to say, but his heart was beating so fast and the sirens in his mind were so loud, drowning out the music and the crowd. What was he supposed to do when it felt like his entire body was on fire, how was he supposed to think over all that _noise_ \--

Aziraphale _jumped_ , startled, and Crowley abruptly realized that this particular noise wasn’t coming from the inside of his head at all -- a deafening alarm was blaring all around them. The music and chatter ceased immediately as everyone looked around, confused.

A recorded female voice spoke from somewhere above their heads:

_**“May I have your attention please? May I have your attention please? A fire has been detected in the building. Please proceed to the nearest exit...”** _

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he’d set off the bloody fucking fire alarm! 

“Good Lord!” Aziraphale had to nearly shout to be heard over the piercing _whoop whoop_ of the alarm system. “I wonder what that’s all about?”

Crowley didn’t answer, just shrugged his shoulders in a way he hoped looked sufficiently perplexed. The other party-goers were quickly moving to the hallway, toward the exit. 

“Well, come on then.” Aziraphale nudged Crowley forward. “I’m going to find the director and make sure she doesn’t need any assistance -- why don’t you bring the car around? I dare say the party's over.”

Crowley didn’t need to be asked twice. He dashed for the exit, his dark green cloak trailing behind him. 

He slid into the Bentley a few minutes later, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he dropped his head down onto the steering wheel and laughed until his shoulders shook.

“Well that was _quite_ an evening, wasn’t it?” Crowley chuckled after a few moments, lifting up his head and wiping his eyes. The Bentley’s windshield wipers gave a sympathetic swish.

Once, Crowley might have been mortified. He might have wanted to slink off into the night and spend the rest of the evening replaying his loss of composure over and over again in his mind until he was nearly mad with it. 

Once, but not now. Instead, he found himself awash with a pleasant sort of relief that spread out from his chest and settled in his fingertips as he drummed them against the steering wheel. It had been a good night, hadn’t it? Crowley could almost still feel Aziraphale’s warm hand on his arm from when he’d steered Crowley around the room, clearly delighted to be showing him off. And Aziraphale _had_ appreciated the key. More than Crowley could have ever hoped for, even, and if the only price for that was an unexpected fire alarm, well. Crowley was happy to pay it. 

Not that he was planning on clueing Aziraphale in on exactly _why_ the alarm had gone off. Crowley did have a little dignity left, after all, and Aziraphale didn’t need to know _everything_. Crowley couldn’t help but feel a tiny twinge of embarrassment when he thought about it...but it didn’t matter, not really. He loved Aziraphale. And loving Aziraphale felt _good_. 

“Let’s go pick up our angel then, shall we?” 

The Bentley’s engine purred in agreement. Crowley pulled the car out of the parking lot and drove across the street, ending up near the curb in front of the museum. A number of people were milling about, talking to each other and to the firemen who must have arrived shortly after Crowley left. He quickly spotted Aziraphale, talking once more with the director.

Aziraphale noticed the Bentley and caught Crowley’s eye through the windshield. He flashed Crowley a smile, and raised his index finger, mouthing _‘Just one moment.’_ Crowley waved his hand in acknowledgement and settled back against his seat to wait. 

The radio in the Bentley clicked on and music started to play.

_‘I think we’re alone now, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around…’_

“Ohhhh no you don’t,” Crowley growled. He aggressively adjusted the dials, but the sound didn’t change in the slightest. 

Aziraphale seemed to have wrapped up his conversation, and turned to walk toward the Bentley.

_‘I think we’re alone now, the beating of our hearts is the only sound…”_

The sound of synth drums continued to beat out of the speakers and Crowley smacked the dashboard with the heel of his hand. 

“Will you _quit_ it?”

Aziraphale was mere steps away from the car now, coming around the front toward the passenger seat.

_‘Running just as fast as we can, holding on to one another’s hands…’_

“I swear to Satan, I will scrap you for _parts_ \--”

Aziraphale’s hand was on the handle, pulling it up. 

_‘Trying to get away, into the night, and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say…”_

Aziraphale opened the door, and the music immediately changed to a gentle instrumental track. 

“Oh, this is one of my favorite Gershwin compositions,” Aziraphale remarked as he slid into the car. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how the hum of a car’s engine could sound so _smug_ , but the Bentley certainly managed it. 

“Glad you like it,” Crowley replied smoothly, even as he delivered a surreptitious kick to his seat with the bottom of his boot. Was it really _so_ much to ask that his own blasted car behave once in a while? “Was everything all right with the museum? Anything damaged?”

Aziraphale shrugged, adjusting his toga as he settled in his seat.

“It must have been an electrical malfunction, as far as anyone can tell. No harm done, even if it did cut the party short. Do you fancy a nightcap back at the shop, then?”

Crowley nodded and maneuvered the car away from the curb and onto the street. It was unseasonably pleasant out and he rolled his window down, enjoying the way the warm wind whipped around his hair and caught against the edges of his cloak. _Electrical malfunction_. Well, that wasn’t too far off the truth; one might argue demonic emotional overload was an electrical malfunction of sorts.

“That reminds me,” Crowley said, sending the Bentley careening down the road. “What was it you were going to tell me? Before the alarm went off.”

“You know, I actually don’t recall,” Aziraphale replied, his voice noticeably higher than usual. No surprise there - Aziraphale could be so _touchy_ about Crowley’s driving.

“Well let me know if it suddenly comes back to you,” Crowley said airily, but he was already losing focus on the conversation. Knowing Aziraphale, it probably had something to do with early annotated versions of Shakespeare, or how the museum director’s pirate costume hadn’t been _entirely_ historically accurate. Crowley’s mind was drifting toward the rest of the night that lay ahead of them. And hadn’t Aziraphale said something about brunch tomorrow?

“I will,” Aziraphale replied softly, and there was something in his tone that Crowley didn’t quite recognize. “Let you know, that is. I _will_ let you know.”

Aziraphale was looking out the window with a very strange sort of expression on his face. Crowley didn’t have much time to consider it -- it was at that moment a pair of pedestrians made the extremely unlucky decision to cross at the crosswalk, and Crowley had to swerve wildly to avoid hitting them. Aziraphale let out a yelp of surprise and clutched at his armrest. 

“For goodness sake, Crowley, slow _down_ before you accidentally kill someone!”

Now _there_ was an expression Crowley recognized. 

“You never let me have any fun,” Crowley grumbled, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. The night was just too pleasant and warm and full of potential for him to convincingly fake even the mildest irritation. He lightly tapped the brake, slowing down by the smallest fraction possible, and continued driving toward the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> costumes costumes costumes I love COSTUMES! I basically just want to write any and all excuses to put these boys in OUTFITS!!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed chapter two, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> [Here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2bYQDlGcSzUaAomXK4cxhJ?si=qb8D6ndTS-ycqrzyYxs54Q) the accompanying playlist, and [here's](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com/) my tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

_Click_.

The soft sound of tumblers shifting inside the lock reassured Aziraphale as he turned the key. The noise was accompanied by a low hum of magic as the wards around Crowley’s flat briefly flared, and then dissipated. While he trusted Crowley completely, Aziraphale had been irrationally worried that the key wouldn’t work and he would be unable to get inside and keep his promise to Crowley. Satisfied, Aziraphale pushed the door open, pulling Crowley’s key out of the lock and returning it to his pocket.

Only that wasn’t right, was it? It wasn’t _Crowley’s_ key, it was his own key. Aziraphale’s heart fluttered in his chest, and an ungraceful blush came to his cheeks. _His_ key. That Crowley had given him. He felt his cheeks become hotter and willed the blood from his face. It wouldn’t do to look so flustered the first time he entered Crowley’s flat on his own. 

In fact, Aziraphale could count the number of times he’d been inside Crowley’s flat on one hand. Recently, that number had drastically increased, even though the two of them rarely lingered. It was always quick trips, in-and-out errands like grabbing a bottle of wine or whichever record Crowley wanted them to listen to that particular afternoon. Quite unlike the _very_ memorable evening when Aziraphale had first spent time at Crowley’s flat, all those months ago.

Would things have been easier if Aziraphale had just told Crowley then? The thought had occurred to him, as they’d worked out their plan to survive their executions, that this might be his last chance to tell Crowley he loved him. His last chance to look into those stunning yellow eyes, touch that flame bright hair, and open his mouth to say, _“My dear, I’ve loved you for ever so long…”_

But he hadn’t, because they’d had more pressing concerns, and they’d spent the next few fumbling hours practicing their best imitations of one another. Afterwards, Crowley had all but passed out on top of his bed, exhausted, leaving Aziraphale to sit on the sofa, twiddling his thumbs and doing his very best to work through all of the insistent, complicated thoughts that had swarmed through his mind.

Assuming he and Crowley’s plan to fool their respective bosses’ worked, (and Aziraphale had not had any extra space in his mind to even entertain the notion that it might not) he and Crowley would be _free_. Free to spend time together without worrying about the consequences, and free to enjoy the world they had saved. It was everything Aziraphale had ever wanted, even if he hadn’t always been able to admit it. Every nerve in his body had seemed to thrum with a nervous sort of exhilaration just thinking about it.

But...there was something else too. Aziraphale had spent a lifetime trying (and occasionally succeeding) to convince himself that, deep down, Heaven had his best interests at heart. Yes, there had been many unpleasant lectures and even more unpleasant reprimands from Gabriel, and yes, the other angels may have looked at Aziraphale with a contempt they never bothered to even try to mask, but it was all for his own good, surely. All part of the great ineffable plan...and besides, wasn’t it true that if Aziraphale had been the right sort of angel to begin with none of it would have been necessary? 

Sitting there on Crowley’s sofa, the night after the world hadn’t ended, Aziraphale had been forced to confront the idea that all of it had been for nothing. All of Heaven’s directives, their snide comments and endless punishments, all of the times Aziraphale had thought if he could just endure it, just be better, then it would all make sense in the end. 

But the End had come and gone, and none of it had mattered. Crowley had been right all along. And Aziraphale had never felt more foolish. Habit had made him want to reach out to Heaven for reassurance, but of course that was a dead end now wasn’t it? Maybe it always had been. Aziraphale couldn’t think of a time he’d ever felt more alone. 

The tiniest inkling of an idea had come to him then, small and unsure. Maybe he wasn’t alone. How would Crowley react if Aziraphale crawled into bed beside him, if he slipped between the black silk sheets and threw his arms around him? After everything they’d been through that day, it sounded...nice. Safe. To hold and be held by Crowley. 

In the end, it had simply been too much for Aziraphale to even consider. He was already at his limit for worry and love and sorrow and joy and a dozen other emotions he couldn’t even name. The mere thought of adding anything else to the mix had been nearly enough to make him cry, and wouldn’t _that_ have been embarrassing? 

Aziraphale abruptly realized he’d stalled in the middle of Crowley’s flat, caught up in his own memories. He pulled the key back out of his pocket and considered it for a moment, smiling. He hadn’t managed to tell Crowley he loved him that night, but Aziraphale hardly felt any ill will toward his past self over the matter -- after all, he’d had no way to know then that the present would turn out to be quite so wonderful. 

But oh, he’d been _so_ close to telling Crowley the truth of it all a few nights ago at the museum. Crowley had looked so handsome in his dark green tunic and thick gray cloak, eyes uncovered and unguarded. The moment had felt so promising, and the words had been _right there_ on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. 

And then the fire alarm had sounded. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel it had been a sign of some sort -- clearly, it hadn’t been the right time. Then, when Crowley had pressed the subject later in his car, Aziraphale had been far too flustered to try again. 

Well. The perfect time would come, eventually. 

And in the meantime, Crowley hadn’t asked Aziraphale to wander aimlessly around his flat while he replayed old memories. Aziraphale had come here to do a favor, after all. 

Aziraphale walked down the hallway and found Crowley’s plants to be just as lush and green as he’d remembered. A few new specimens lined the hall too, their colorful blooms standing out vividly against the dark wall. 

“Hello there,” Aziraphale murmured. “Aren’t you lovely?”

He trailed a fingertip lightly over one of the crimson petals as he spoke, and could have sworn the plant leaned into his touch. A tray of gardening equipment sat nearby, along with a list of instructions, written out in Crowley’s familiar looping handwriting. Aziraphale pointedly ignored the first two bullet points --

—Inform the plants that you are their new master while I’m gone.  
—Pretend they are trying to purchase your favorite Emily Dickenson and threaten them with whatever harm (physical or spiritual) you see fit.

\-- and set about his task. Crowley’s instructions were meticulously detailed and included several notes on achieving the right balance of humidity, moisture, and temperature. Aziraphale followed them as best he could, and added just a touch of magic when needed. It was a surprisingly soothing routine, and Aziraphale found himself humming a little tune as he gently tended to the plants one by one. By the end of it, they almost seemed to be humming along, and a few of the blooms swayed back and forth in time with the rhythm. 

Pleased, Aziraphale returned the equipment to its tray and stood back to study his work. Not bad, if he did say so himself. But of course, it wasn’t his own opinion that really mattered here, was it?

Aziraphale brushed the last few bits of dirt off his hands and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. Haltingly, he managed to fumble his way to the correct screen and began to type. What was it Crowley had said? More like a telegram, less like a letter. 

_Your plants are doing wonderfully. I believe I followed (most of) your instructions well enough, and hopefully to your satisfaction. Sincerely, Aziraphale._

The bubble of text popped onto the screen with a ding as he hit send. Aziraphale had been extremely dubious when Crowley originally bought him the mobile, but had admittedly softened to the idea after watching Crowley spend the better part of a half hour demonstrating how to take a selfie. Aziraphale supposed there was also a certain value to texting; if Crowley were busy, he could respond at his own leisure, rather than being interrupted with a phone call. It reminded him a bit of passenger pigeons, a loss he’d never quite gotten over. Still, even his fastest pigeon had never been able to achieve this level of efficient communication. 

He started to put the phone back in his pocket, but stopped when it chimed softly, the screen lighting up. Another bubble of text had appeared below Aziraphale’s own. 

_Thanks, I’m sure you did a fine job. Did you follow the first two instructions?_

Aziraphale’s thumbs hovered over the tiny keyboard as he debated his answer. Then, he smiled.

_What do you think?_

A bubbled ellipses popped up on the screen almost immediately after. Aziraphale knew this meant Crowley was typing a response, and he couldn’t help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction -- he could perfectly imagine Crowley’s scowl. Then the bubble disappeared. Aziraphale waited, but no new message appeared. He frowned down at the device and tapped its side experimentally. Was this thing even working? Modern technology could be _so_ unreliable. 

He was just about to give it up as a lost cause when his mobile made a noise he’d never heard before. It chirruped at him once, twice, three times, before a crisp image of Crowley’s head and shoulders lit up the screen. 

“Hello,” said Crowley. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale nearly dropped the phone in surprise. “What’s this, then?”

“It’s Facetime. You know, like a video conference.”

Aziraphale didn't know, but he was starting to get the idea. He peered down at the screen more intently. It was rather like looking into a small window -- he could see Crowley clearly, and the backdrop of what must be his hotel room. From what he could tell, Crowley was laying on his stomach across a bed, propped up on his elbows. 

“And can you see me as well?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hypothetically, yeah,” Crowley said, smiling. “Although right now the only view I’m getting is the top of your hair -- you need to hold the phone up.”

Aziraphale held the mobile out at arm’s length, tilting it one way and then the other.

“How’s this?”

“Not much better to be honest. It’s Facetime, that means I’m supposed to see your _face_. Not your bowtie --”

Aziraphale adjusted the phone again. 

“ -- or your pocket.” 

“Blast it all,” Aziraphale grumbled under his breath. He moved the phone closer, trying to center it about six inches away from his face. “How about now?”

“Perfect. See, they have it all wrong about old dogs and new tricks.” Crowley’s tone was teasing, but the warmth beneath his words was unmistakable. “It’s good to see you, angel.”

A lock of red hair flopped over Crowley’s forehead, and Aziraphale had a clear mental image of somehow reaching through the screen and smoothing it back. If Crowley had been there in person, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d have been able to resist the urge. 

“Now,” Crowley continued, and all at once his voice was low and smooth, with a distinctly syrupy quality as it rumbled out of the mobile’s tiny speakers. “Why don’t you be a dear and turn the phone around so I can speak with my plants?”

“Absolutely not. And there’s no use in trotting out your temptation voice, you know it won’t work on me.” 

It _had_ worked, just a little bit, but Crowley didn’t need to know that. 

The suggestive look slid off Crowley’s face immediately. He tipped his head back and groaned dramatically.

“Angelllllllll,” he whined. “Come on, just for a moment.”

“No,” Aziraphale stated definitively. “You may treat your plants in whatever way you see fit, but I refuse to be an accomplice.”

“They’re going to get complacent!” 

“Well that’s hardly my problem, now is it?” From behind the mobile, one of the plants unfurled a petal with what Aziraphale assumed to be gratitude. “I won’t discuss it any further; I am walking away.”

He did exactly that, moving down the hallway despite Crowley’s disgruntled sounds of protest.

“A _zira_ phale--”

“Don’t pout, dear, the matter is quite settled. Now, how was your day?”

“I don’t want to talk about my _day_ , I want to tell my plants I’m going to use them for kindling if they don’t--”

“Are you enjoying the expo?” Aziraphale continued cheerily, as if Crowley hadn’t even spoken. 

Crowley groaned again. This time, he punctuated the sound by rolling over and flopping onto his back, causing the screen to momentarily blur before he held it back up above his face.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “If you’re going to be such a rotten bastard about it--”

“I am.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” Crowley sighed, and rolled his eyes. He was clearly trying to look as put upon as possible, but he wasn’t doing a particularly good job -- despite the small screen, Aziraphale could clearly see the flash of a grin, even as Crowley did his best to smother it. 

“Well,” Crowley went on, “if you _must_ know...my day has been good. Great, even.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. The edges of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, clearly warming to the topic. “There are these heirloom seeds I’ve been after for ages, and I finally found someone who cultivates them. Cost me a pretty penny, but I think it’ll be more than worth it. What about you?”

“Oh, nothing too extravagant to report,” Aziraphale replied brightly. “I bought the most incredible Turkish delights from a lovely Ukranian woman at the farmer’s market…”

He trailed off, his attention suddenly diverted. He’d been pacing small laps in and around the rooms of Crowley’s flat as they’d chatted, not paying much attention to the space around him. That is, until he spotted something rather out of place amid the sparse furniture. The throne he recognized, of course -- something that gaudy and ostentatious was impossible to forget. No, what caught his eye was the black, roughly oblong case that sat propped up on the seat of the throne. 

“What is that?” Aziraphale asked, pointing. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“You know I can’t see what you’re pointing at, right?”

“Oh. Right.” 

Aziraphale briefly considered attempting to turn the mobile around and give Crowley a view, but ultimately decided that was too much work.

“It’s a black case,” he said instead. “It’s got brass latches on the side and it’s sitting on your throne. It looks like it’s for some sort of instrument.”

To his surprise, Crowley’s face flushed crimson at his words. Now _that_ was interesting. Crowley was not generally prone to embarrassment, which only made Aziraphale more intrigued. 

“That’s -- it’s nothing, nothing at all, don’t worry about it--”

“Well, if it’s nothing then you won’t mind if I take a look.”

“Angel, don’t--”

But Aziraphale was already across the room and reaching for the case. He briefly saw Crowley scrambling across his hotel bed, as though he might crawl through the phone to stop him, before Aziraphale put the phone down to pick up the case. Aziraphale placed the case gently on the table beside the phone and flipped open the latches. 

“Oh!” he said. “It’s a violin.” 

And a fine one at that -- sleek and polished, with a warm, rich coloring to the wood that shone where it caught the light. 

“It’s a fiddle, actually,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale picked his mobile screen back up to get a better look at him. Crowley’s shoulders were hunched around his ears like he wanted to disappear, and the blush crept even higher on his cheeks. 

“I see...What ever is it for?”

Crowley shrugged self-consciously. 

“Have a lot of extra free time now, don’t I? Thought I’d learn an instrument the human way...Figured a fiddle would be ironic. You know, the devil in Georgia, and all that.”

“Oh my dear, that’s wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and Crowley’s shoulders started to relax, but only slightly. 

“Really?” he asked. “You don’t think it’s...I don’t know, silly?” 

It certainly wasn’t something Aziraphale had expected, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Aziraphale himself had always been too impatient to properly learn an instrument -- he always gave up eventually in favor of whatever book he was reading at the time. But Crowley was nothing if not patient, wasn’t he? 

Aziraphale suddenly realized he was taking far too long to answer Crowley’s question. Crowley’s expression had shifted to worried, as if he thought Aziraphale might scold him for foolishness. All of a sudden, Crowley looked rather unsure and very, _very_ dear. 

“Of course not,” Azriaphale said emphatically. “I think it’s absolutely marvelous.”

“ _Marvelous_ is a bit much,” Crowley scoffed. He pushed a hand through his hair in a way that was probably supposed to come off as flippant, but the effect was rather ruined by the brief flash of pride that flared in his eyes at Aziraphale’s praise. “I just like to keep busy.” 

It certainly made for a very appealing mental picture -- Crowley, fiddle slung over his arm, his long, nimble fingers working across the frets as he maneuvered the bow back and forth...Suddenly feeling flustered for a reason he didn’t wish to examine, Aziraphale reached out and plucked one of the strings. The single note echoed loudly in the quiet flat, giving Aziraphale the moment he needed to pull himself back together.

“You simply must play it for me when you get back,” Aziraphale said, closing the lid of the case and latching it shut. 

Crowley’s blush came back so fast it was as if he’d been sprayed with scalding water. 

“What? No!” he sputtered. “I told you, I’m learning it the human way, which means it’ll be months before it sounds like anything other than fifteen angry cats fighting in an alley. There is _no_ way I’m going to play for someone who saw Vivaldi perform in person.” 

Of course, Aziraphale knew it wouldn’t matter what it sounded like. Vivaldi was all well and good, but he wasn’t _Crowley_. Still, Aziraphale could understand not feeling quite ready to share something. He’d only been wrestling with his determination to tell Crowley he loved him for a few months, and it was one of the most challenging things he’d ever experienced.

Crowley must have caught some piece of this understanding in Aziraphale’s face, because the affronted lines in his forehead relaxed, turning into something softer, fonder. 

“But if I _do_ ever decide that I want an audience,” Crowley continued, “you’ll be the first one I call.”

“I should hope so. I’d be terribly insulted to find out you’d been playing for Shadwell this whole time.”

Crowley snorted derisively. 

“As if. Of course it would be you, it’ll always be you.” 

_Oh._

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. Crowley didn’t seem to know what to say either -- he’d taken on an expression rather like a fish who’d been having a very nice day before being suddenly and unceremoniously plucked from the water and tossed onto the shore. He recovered quickly though, and loudly cleared his throat before continuing.

“Anyway...thanks for looking after my plants. Although if you could _just_ threaten them a _tiny_ bit, maybe with a knife--”

“Crowley.”

“--or give them that horrible I’m-not-angry-I’m-just-disappointed look of yours, you know the one I mean. That’s worse than a knife actually, it’s fucking brutal--”

“Crowley, if you say one more word on the subject I will come back tonight and read them delightful children’s stories until the sun comes up.” 

“Really, angel, there’s no need to escalate things,” Crowley said, exasperation and fondness warring in his voice. “Suppose it doesn’t matter, I’ll be back in two days anyway.” 

“I’m sure they look forward to it.”

“They had better,” Crowley said. “I’ll see you soon, angel.”

Then the image of Crowley disappeared, leaving Aziraphale staring at his own reflection on the screen.

_Two days_. Crowley would be back in two days. Surely that would provide ample time for Aziraphale to prepare his confession to Crowley. He just needed to come up with the right plan, the _perfect_ plan, and then everything would fall into place. 

Once again, Aziraphale pulled the well-worn piece of paper from his pocket. The list of places or times that he might tell Crowley he loved him had lengthened, as Aziraphale had grown both increasingly determined to act and increasingly anxious over how to do so. The bullet point listing _“at the museum costume party”_ had been crossed out, but several new options had been penned beneath it. 

Aziraphale stared at the most recent addition, added only the night before. He’d been three glasses deep into a bottle of Riesling when he’d written it down, which was probably why _“text him”_ had seemed like a viable option at the time. He’d dismissed it in the morning -- of course he wasn’t going to text Crowley that he was in love with him, how unbelievably gauche -- but as Aziraphale studied the list he found himself warming to the idea. After all, his recent attempts to work up the nerve to tell Crowley in person hadn’t exactly been wild successes. 

And besides, Aziraphale couldn’t quite ignore the small, shaky voice whispering that maybe this was better, because this way he wouldn’t be able to see the look on Crowley’s face when he inevitably rejected Aziraphale’s words…

Aziraphale gave himself a little shake, as if doing so might physically dispel the thought from his mind. That sort of thinking would not do at _all_. He owed Crowley the truth, no matter what the consequences might be, and dwelling on his fears wouldn’t help the matter.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to think the option over, could it? 

Aziraphale pulled up his text conversation with Crowley and started to type.

_Dear Crowley…_

That wasn’t quite right. Aziraphale deleted the line and started over, his thumbs moving slowly over the unfamiliar, cramped keyboard. 

_Dearest Crowley,_

_I suppose I should have told you this long ago, but the time has finally come for me to confess how much I love_

Aziraphale stopped typing. All at once, the absurdity of what he was doing hit him like a freight train. What was he _thinking_ , he couldn’t confess his deepest, most heartfelt feelings over _text_. Good Lord. 

He hit the delete button over and over again in rapid succession, wiping the message from the screen. So much for that, then. A failed experiment if there ever was one. 

It was as he deleted the last remaining word that Aziraphale was struck by a rather unpleasant notion. Hadn’t bubbled ellipses appeared on his own screen when Crowley was typing? Was it possible Crowley got a similar notification when Aziraphale was typing? Or did Crowley only see it when he sent a text? 

Aziraphale scowled down as his mobile. There were just so many damn variables with these things. He’d _never_ had this sort of problem with his passenger pigeons. They may have sounded the occasional judgemental _coo_ in his direction when he’d spent hours puzzling over how best to phrase his tiny message to Crowley before attaching it to their legs for delivery, but at least they couldn’t _tell_ Crowley about it. 

He should probably send _something_ , just in case...but what? His fingers brushed the screen as he pondered, barely even a tap, but the mobile reacted to the touch immediately. The keyboard did something funny, and the next thing Aziraphale knew, he’d sent Crowley a small, cartoonish image of a single pine tree. 

Well that wasn’t so bad, all things considered. Aziraphale liked trees. Crowley could think of that what he would. 

He slipped the phone into one pocket and the list into the other. It was time to head back to the bookshop; Crowley would be back in London before he knew it, and Aziraphale still needed to come up with a way to confess his feelings. He gave the plants one final spritz of water and a few more words of encouragement on his way out of the greenhouse. They really were quite lovely, it was hardly difficult to come up with the compliments.

A stray vine reached out and snagged against Aziraphale’s sleeve as he made to leave, like a toddler tugging on their parent’s coat for more attention.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back soon,” Aziraphale soothed. He gently detached the vine from his sleeve, andit briefly curled up and around his finger before returning to its pot. “I have a key now, after all.” 

It was the first time he’d said that phrase out loud, and Aziraphale found it very pleasing. 

“I have my own key to Crowley’s flat,” he told the plants, and he enjoyed saying the words even more the second time around. “And I’m going to tell him I’m in love with him.”

Suddenly, the hall was filled with motion -- leaves swayed and buds blossomed into flowers, permeating the air with their perfume. One particularly tall specimen shook itself energetically, depositing a small shower of white petals onto Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said, and laughed. “Well, I’m glad you approve. But remember, mum’s the word! I’m waiting for just the right moment to tell him.”

It remained to be seen exactly which moment would be the right one, but Aziraphale felt confident it was just around the corner. Crowley deserved the best of all possible moments, after all, and Aziraphale was determined to give it to him. Maybe in two days...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days until Crowley is back in town...still plenty of time for Aziraphale to get up to more mischief!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts <3\. Hopefully updates will continue to be fairly regular, although I'm still working full time in the office right now, so it might not be as regular as I'd like. Rest assured though, it will all be written eventually! I have the rest of the story outlined and planned. I also have several other (completed) Good Omens works if you'd like to read those in the meantime!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com/) and don't forget about the extremely fresh and poppin [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2bYQDlGcSzUaAomXK4cxhJ?si=k5WBYuc_SfG9gO20e9ppzA) that accompanies this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> head's up, there is some (extremely fluffy, altogether pleasant and 100% non-angsty) accidental drug use in this chapter

Aziraphale put down his book and stretched his arms over his head. He’d been so absorbed in his novel that he hadn’t noticed the twinge of discomfort in his neck until it had spread through his shoulders. Another stretch and a small touch of magic was enough to soothe the ache, and he rolled his shoulders a few times with a satisfied sigh. 

He glanced at the clock and started with surprise. Good Lord, had he really been reading for twelve straight hours? He supposed he must have -- it had been afternoon when he’d started, and now he could see the first few rays of morning sunshine slipping through the windows and into the backroom of the bookshop.

It wasn’t entirely shocking; there were times in his life when he’d spent entire weeks wrapped up in his reading. Lately, however, he’d had less time to lose himself in a book for such long periods of time. In recent centuries the shop had kept him too busy, which was perfectly fine -- Aziraphale liked the shop. In more recent months, it was Crowley who’d kept him too busy, which was better than fine -- Aziraphale liked Crowley even more. 

Oh, he still valued his time alone, of course, and he knew Crowley felt the same way. After all, they’d both spent the better part of six thousand years as primarily solitary creatures, and there would always be certain things they preferred to do on their own time. Still, the thought of spending days at a time with his nose buried in a book held significantly less appeal now that things between him and Crowley were so...different. Aziraphale could still remember times when he’d been glad for the chance to see Crowley once every few hundred years. Now, Crowley had been out of London for less than a week at his gardening expo and Aziraphale was more than ready for him to return. 

It was a nice feeling, the way he missed Crowley. It was like a loaf of bread that had been set out on a sunny windowsill to rise; a warm, unhurried sort of waiting, full of promise. 

It hadn’t always been nice. For a very long time, missing Crowley had always brought along a host of much less pleasant feelings: guilt, uncertainty, and the reminder that Aziraphale shouldn’t be missing the company of a demon.

But today, the only concern in Aziraphale’s mind was that Crowley would be back in London this very afternoon, and Aziraphale still hadn’t figured out exactly how he was going to tell Crowley he loved him. It was hard to get too worked up over it though. Mostly, Aziraphale was just looking forward to seeing him. 

Aziraphale rose from his chair and smoothed the wrinkles out of his waistcoat. Maybe a walk in the park would be just the thing to get sorted before Crowley’s arrival.

* * *

His walk to the park was lovely indeed, and the weather even lovelier. It was unseasonably warm, and before long Aziraphale was slipping his gloves off and into his pocket, and unfastening the scarf from around his neck. Once he reached St. James’, he found he wasn’t quite ready to turn back around. Instead, he settled down on a bench to enjoy the sunshine. 

He wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the unusually warm November day -- couples strolled by hand in hand, as well as a few parents pushing their children in prams or pulling them along in wagons. 

A few dozen feet away, a young man and woman sat sprawled on a blanket, chatting amiably as they watched the clouds pass by overheard. Aziraphale thought the pair couldn’t be more than twenty at the most, students, perhaps. Exchange students if he wasn’t mistaken, judging by their American accents. They were what Crowley would have affectionately referred to as “hippie types”, with tie-dye shirts and a few flowers tucked into their hair. 

Aziraphale smiled to himself. He’d seen similar clothes all those decades ago at Woodstock. Humans were so charming. Even as the world moved on around them, some things never changed. 

He was about to stand and move farther along the park when he heard a sudden, loud gasp from nearby. He turned and saw that the young man on the picnic blanket was lying prone, eyes closed, his friend crouched over him and looking terrified. 

Aziraphale only had to extend the smallest of magical queries to sense that something was seriously wrong. The boy’s aura was brittle and weak, clearly struggling, and that was more than enough to get Aziraphale on his feet and moving toward the two of them within a moment. 

The young woman looked up at Aziraphale, confused and frightened, as he quickly knelt down on the blanket.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’m here to help.”

“He -- he’s allergic to bees, I thought we had an epipen with us, but -- but,” she stammered. “Are you -- Are you a doctor?”

“Something like that, my dear.” 

His words (plus a tiny fraction of a miracle) were enough to encourage her to move back and let Aziraphale through. 

Aziraphale placed his hand on the young man’s chest and concentrated. 

It had been quite some time since Aziraphale had healed someone, other than the occasional lifting of aches and colds from those passing in front of his shop. The last time he’d done any real, proper healing had been with poor Anathema’s wrist, and that had hardly been anything at all, just a tweak really. This was something entirely different -- Aziraphale could feel the young man’s erratic heartbeat against his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and knew that it wouldn’t keep beating for much longer unless he did something. 

And that something was going to take a much larger miracle than Aziraphale had expended since he’d severed his official ties with Heaven. Oh he still had magic, of course, he’d never lost that, but it was different now. His powers simply didn’t -- oh, what was the word Crowley used -- recharge the way they used to. These days, any massive outpouring of celestial energy was likely to leave him drained and briefly powerless, so he’d just avoided doing large miracles as best he could. It wasn’t too hard, under normal circumstances; it didn’t take much magic to warm up a forgotten cup of tea, or keep the dust from his books, or open up the occasional last-minute reservation. 

A healing of this magnitude was an entirely different story. Not that it mattered, not really. Aziraphale didn’t care if it drained every last drop of his magic. He refused to even entertain the thought of any other future than one where this young man would sit back up and hug his tearful friend, then go on to live a long, happy life the way humans were supposed to. 

Holding that thought firmly in his mind, Aziraphale closed his eyes and focused. He let all of the background noise -- the London traffic, the rustling of the wind through the trees, the anxious half-sobs of the girl kneeling beside him -- fade from his awareness. Eventually, the only thing he could feel was the warmth of his magic as he sent it out from himself and into the young man’s body. The miracle wove throughout the human’s system, mending and correcting and strengthening until finally, Aziraphale felt his magic return to him, having found nothing else left to heal.

Aziraphale let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He felt exhausted, like he’d just run a marathon -- or at least, how he imagined it must feel to run a marathon, as he’d never understood the appeal. 

The young man stirred beneath his hand, and Aziraphale withdrew it just in time for him to sit up, blinking at Aziraphale in confusion. 

“What just--” he started, but was interrupted as his friend launched herself across the picnic blanket, nearly knocking him back over as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Oh my god, Milo, are you okay?” she half-sobbed, half-shrieked, her voice muffled as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” he -- Milo, apparently -- replied, still rather befuddled. “Diana, what happened? I remember getting stung by that bee but then...”

Diana raised her head and detached herself from Milo’s body, but still kept one hand securely on his arm. She wiped at her eyes, but clearly couldn’t help smiling even as she brushed away the last of her tears. 

“You nearly scared me to death, that’s what happened,” she chided gently, and Milo smiled back. “You were going into shock or something, you stopped breathing, but then this guy came over and...” She looked over at Aziraphale, eyes wide. “How did you do that?”

“Oh, no need to be concerned about the details,” Aziraphale murmured reassuringly. He waved his hand and laced the suggestion to forget about the details with his very last drop of magic. It was just enough to work -- both of their faces went momentarily blank before settling back into their previous expressions of surprised relief. Well, that was good, then; at least they wouldn’t be asking questions about the miraculous nature of Aziraphale’s aid. 

And with that, Aziraphale was spent. He could still feel the smoldering core of his magic, somewhere deep inside him on another plane of existence, but it had been reduced to little more than embers. It was a reassuring warmth nonetheless, and Aziraphale was confident that with time, it would be a flickering bonfire of magic once again. For the moment, however, he was entirely powerless. 

“Well whatever you did, I think you saved my life,” said Milo. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “I’m just happy I was able to help.”

He started to rise to his feet but a sudden rush of exhaustion got in the way, and he merely toppled out of his kneeling position and onto his backside instead. 

“Goodness,” he said, startled. “My apologies, I think that took more out of me than I expected.” 

“Hey, don’t worry dude!” Milo said earnestly. “I bet it’s not every day that you save someone’s life.”

“Yeah, you should take it easy for a minute,” Diana added, and Aziraphale was touched by the genuine concern in her eyes. “Why don’t you chill with us for a while until you feel better? It’s literally the least we could do.” 

Aziraphale almost protested, more out of reflex than anything else, but he was feeling rather knackered. His thoughts felt like they were each wrapped in a thin layer of cotton -- undamaged, but undeniably fuzzy. And besides, hadn’t he come to the park to relax in the first place? No reason he couldn’t do that with a little company. 

“Only if you’re sure you don’t mind…”

“Of course not!” Diana said, beaming, and Milo nodded in agreement. “I’m Diana, and this is Milo, although you might have figured that already. What’s your name?” 

Aziraphale pondered this question for a brief moment. Giving out his true name tended to result in a lot of questions at best, and outright suspicion at worst. “Mr. Fell” was his standard response, but that seemed awfully formal, considering he was currently half-sprawled on a tie-dye picnic blanket with two companions who couldn’t be older than twenty at the most. He did occasionally supply a name to fit the “A” of “A.Z. Fell” when the situation called for it, but the name itself varied depending on his mood. He introduced himself as “Arthur” somewhat regularly, but sometimes it was “Atticus”, and once -- just to see Crowley’s reaction -- he’d announced that his first name was, in fact, “Axel.” 

None of those seemed right for this particular moment, however. Besides, hadn’t Aziraphale already tampered with their perceptions just a touch? Surely sharing his actual name wouldn’t be any more confusing after he’d just brought Milo back from the brink of death with only the touch of his hand.

“My name is Aziraphale,” he said, and rearranged his legs until he was sitting more properly. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Whoa, really? That’s sick,” said Milo, and Aziraphale intuited from the tone of his voice that was meant to be a compliment. “Is that your first or last name?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s both, that is. Just the one name.” 

Milo and Diana nodded earnestly, as if this made perfect sense to them.

“I once had a dealer named Bananas,” Diana said. “But Aziraphale is even cooler.” 

Aziraphale was finding himself thoroughly charmed. It was nice to know that the affable nature of such “hippie types” hadn’t changed much since his time at Woodstock. He was about to tell them this -- he had a notion they would appreciate the Woodstock detail -- when Milo perked up, smiling. 

“Oh!” Milo said. “Diana, that reminds me...you wanna pass me your bag?”

She did so, and Milo dug around in it for a moment before pulling something out that was roughly the size of his palm and wrapped tightly in cellophane. 

“I don’t know if you’re into this sort of thing,” Milo continued, holding out the item in Aziraphale’s direction. “But would you like a brownie? I know it’s not much compared to saving my life, but we made them ourselves and they’re good for what ails ya, if you know what I mean.” 

Aziraphale did not know what he meant, exactly, although a distant part of him thought maybe he should. His thoughts were still a little scattered, no doubt a side effect of expending all of his magical energy in one burst. Ah well, surely whatever it was he couldn't quite remember at the moment couldn’t be that important...and now that he thought about it, he really was feeling peckish.

“Thank you, that sounds lovely,” he said, and Milo handed it over, clearly pleased that Aziraphale had accepted his offer. 

Aziraphale carefully pulled off the cellophane and didn’t waste any time tucking in. The brownie had an odd, although not entirely unpleasant, taste to it that he couldn’t quite recognize. Once again he had the distinct impression that he should recognize it, or at the very least, should be able to grasp the fleeting, half-formed thought in the back of his mind that hinted he was missing a crucial detail. 

“Head’s up, it’s pretty…potent,” Diana piped up, interrupting Aziraphales’s sluggish train of thought. “You could save half of it for later, if you wanted.”

“Oh, no need for that,” Aziraphale replied cheerily. In fact, the snack seemed to be just what he needed -- he was feeling better already. “I’ve been eating brownies for much longer than you’ve been alive, my dear, I’m sure I can handle it.” 

With that, he polished off the rest of it and brushed the crumbs off his fingers. Milo and Diana stared at him with slightly wide eyes, clearly impressed, although Aziraphale had no idea why. It hadn’t been a particularly large baked good. 

After he’d finished eating, he spent the next half hour engaged in pleasant, meandering conversation with the two young Americans. They told him about their studies at university, and once the subject of literature classes came up, the three of them found they had similar tastes and therefore a lot to discuss.

A tinny alarm suddenly sounded from within Diana’s bag. She pulled out her mobile and nearly did a double take as she looked at the time. 

“Oh shit, we have to get to class,” she said to Milo. Then she turned to Aziraphale. “Man, I’m sorry but we have to go. You seemed kind of wiped out earlier, and that brownie is gonna kick in pretty soon...do you need us to call you a ride or anything?”

Kick in? That was an interesting choice of words. 

Aziraphale waved off her concern as the three of them rose, and Diana started stuffing the blanket into her bag. 

“I’m actually feeling much better now, but thank you. I have a friend I can call for a ride if I need one.” 

“Awesome,” Milo said. He looked at Aziraphale appraisingly for a quick moment, and then darted forward and threw his arms around him.

“Thanks for saving my life, dude.” 

Aziraphale was startled at first (Americans were so affectionate, weren’t they?), but recovered quickly enough to return the brief embrace. Milo pulled back, and Aziraphale adjusted his waistcoat back into place.

“It was my pleasure, Milo.”

And with that, the two of them were off.

Aziraphale was feeling better, but found that his legs were still a little wobbly. He didn’t think he was ready to embark on the walk back to the shop just yet. So he walked over to a group of trees that were tucked in the wooded area of the park, and sat down on the soft grass. He leaned back against a tree trunk, and looked up at the clouds as they slowly meandered through the blue sky. 

Aziraphale was already looking forward to relaying this entire delightful encounter to Crowley later that evening. He was idly thinking through what he might say -- “I saved Milo’s life and as it turns out, he and his friend were absolutely charming. Humans can be so refreshing sometimes, wouldn’t you agree? They shared their food with me and it was admittedly a little unusual but they did say they made it themselves” -- when the elusive understanding that had been just out of reach for so long finally tumbled into his realization. 

Oh. Of course. It had been a cannabis brownie. Aziraphale almost laughed out loud. He managed to contain it, though just barely. Oh, Crowley was really going to enjoy this, wasn’t he? 

To be honest, Aziraphale was rather enjoying it himself. It was all so delightfully...unexpected. He’d sampled cannabis before, of course, but not frequently, and not for a long while. Even so, he did feel a little sheepish for not cottoning on to the situation sooner, even if his exhaustion had been to blame. Maybe he would leave that part out when he recounted the tale to Crowley later. 

Any lingering doubts about what had or hadn’t been in that brownie were thoroughly squashed now, as the distinct sense of being somewhat...altered...spread over him. It was really rather pleasant. After all, he’d been wondering how best to wile away the hours until Crowley returned, hadn’t he? This seemed as enjoyable an activity as anything. Aziraphale leaned back harder against the tree and closed his eyes, enjoying the slight feeling that he was floating just above the soft grass. 

Aziraphale spent a number of slow, meandering minutes this way, enjoying the breeze on his face, drifting aimlessly from one inconsequential thought to another, before a noise caught his attention. It was a slight rustling, followed by an unmistakable squeak. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked down. He was greeted by the sight of twitching whiskers, just barely visible above the tall grass.

“Oh, hello,” said Aziraphale.

The mouse halted its progress across the grass and peered up at him, hesitant but obviously curious. 

“No need to worry, you’re perfectly safe with me,” Aziraphale assured the mouse. A her, if he wasn’t mistaken. “Safe as houses. Safe as...well, something else that’s very safe. A safe, for instance.” 

His words were tumbling out faster than his brain could quite keep up with, but the mouse didn’t seem to mind. She moved a little closer, whiskers twitching all the while. Aziraphale wondered if she knew how lovely her gray fur looked in the sunlight. He decided he had better inform her, just in case.

“You have very lovely gray fur,” he said.

Her tail flicked dismissively back and forth.

“No, you really do,” Aziraphale insisted. “It reminds me of a stormcloud. A very fluffy one.” 

She seemed to approve of this, and drew closer still, until she was just a few inches away from Aziraphale’s leg. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I might have something around here somewhere…”

He clumsily patted his pockets, his hands somehow feeling larger than usual. The trouser pockets were a bust, but an examination of his left coat pocket revealed half of a forgotten biscuit, still wrapped in parchment paper from the patisserie he’d visited yesterday.

“It’s gone a tad crumbly,” he said apologetically, and placed it carefully in the grass.

Luckily, the mouse didn’t seem to mind. A quick sniff was apparently enough to convince her of the biscuit’s worthiness, and then she dove in eagerly. She scooped up a particularly large crumb in her tiny paws and started nibbling it with enthusiasm, her whiskers bobbing up and down the entire time. Aziraphale watched with interest as she groomed miniscule biscuit crumbs off her face, then went back in for a second tasting. 

Aziraphale didn’t interact with animals very often. Not because he didn’t like them -- rather, he’d found that the more time he spent with any one particular animal, the more... _unusual_ it became. Over the millennia, Aziraphale had observed that regular exposure to an angel’s constant, low-level celestial aura could bring about all sorts of unintended consequences in other living creatures. At least, he assumed it was “an angel thing”, as Crowley would say. It was hardly a conversation Aziraphale had ever wanted to involve Gabriel in, and the thought of asking Sandalphon if he’d ever had an odd experience with, say, a puppy was positively ludicrous. 

It was why Aziraphale had long ago given up on the concept of having a pet. He’d taken in a shop cat once some hundred years ago; a great, scruffy beast named Buttercup who’d hated everyone and everything, Aziraphale included. The cat was excellent for business, or rather, very bad for business, which was excellent as far as Aziraphale was concerned. Buttercup had a tendency to drape himself very prominently among the books as if begging to be petted, but would hiss and swipe at anyone who actually approached. A number of potential customers had left the shop noticeably bloodier than when they had entered. This had worked well enough for a time, but as the years went on Buttercup became craftier and craftier, until eventually Aziraphale developed the very alarming suspicion that Buttercup had learned how to read. He’d found Buttercup a very nice home out in the country, after that. 

Even with his passenger pigeons, Aziraphale had discovered he couldn’t keep the same group of birds for too long before they figured out how to unlatch their own pens. They got up to significantly less mischief than Buttercup had, but all the same, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he was equipped to take on the responsibility of caring for ethereally-intelligent pigeons. 

Still, Aziraphale didn’t think a bit of time spent in this mouse’s company could cause any harm. And she really was _very_ cute. She’d polished off the rest of the biscuit, and was now hopefully sniffing at Aziraphale’s pocket. 

“Nothing else in there, I’m afraid,” he said, but dutifully patted his other coat pocket just to be sure. “The only thing in here is…”

He trailed off, distracted, as he pulled out his folded list. _The List_ , as he’d come to think of it. The paper was creased and worn from being handled so frequently, but the inked words still stood out sharply enough when Aziraphale unfolded it: _How To Tell Crowley I Love Him_.

Aziraphale sighed, and the mouse looked up at him with interest. 

“It’s a long story,” he warned. She cocked her head to one side. “Well, if you insist…”

Where to begin? Starting all the way back in Eden seemed needlessly thorough. Perhaps it would be best to jump right in, then. 

“I have this friend, you see. His name is Crowley...and I’m in love with him.” 

The words seemed to hang in the air. A sudden warmth stole over Aziraphale, and he wondered if it was from the effects of the drug, or the words themselves. He decided he had better say it again, just to see.

“I love Crowley.”

And there was the warmth again -- definitely the words, then. Or perhaps the words _and_ the drugs, but either way it felt very agreeable. Aziraphale kept going. 

“I adore Crowley, in fact. Only…”

Aziraphale glanced upward toward the clouds and sighed again. 

“...I haven’t told him.”

Beside him, the mouse blinked. 

“Oh, I _know_ I ought to tell him, but it’s not that simple.”

And it wasn’t, was it? It wasn’t simple at all. Oh, Aziraphale could pretend his hesitation was all about finding the perfect time. He could tell himself that if he just made a solid enough plan, if he could just work out each and every detail, then he wouldn’t make any mistakes and everything would fall into place. Only now that he really allowed himself to examine the thought...he found he was feeling rather more _complicated_. 

Not about his feelings for Crowley -- those were simple enough. Nothing in Aziraphale’s long life had ever felt as clear, as _easy_ , as being with Crowley, here after the world hadn’t ended. These long days of Crowley’s company that faded into evenings together were everything Aziraphale had ever hoped for. He’d never even known he could _be_ so happy. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so comfortable and cared for and _content_ as he did with Crowley, here on their own side after all those years. 

“It’s wonderful,” he said. “I’m so lucky, but it’s also...rather _a lot._ Too much, sometimes.”

Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands, but that wasn’t enough to stop the flood of words he suddenly couldn’t keep in. 

“I mean, less than five hundred years ago I couldn’t even admit we were friends, and now it’s up to me to tell him how I truly feel…”

The mouse twitched its whiskers.

“No, five hundred years is _not_ a long time. Not for me, anyway,” Aziraphale explained. “ _My_ five hundred years ago is _your_ last Thursday. Or something like that. I don’t particularly want to do the maths right now.”

Besides, no matter which way he calculated it, Aziraphale knew that his feelings for Crowley weren’t the only thing he’d been denying himself during all those long years. 

“And now I can’t help but realize how much time I spent only _pretending_ I was happy. Pretending I wasn’t frightened or unsure. And now...well, it’s been a bit of an adjustment, I have to admit.”

An adjustment to feeling safe, to feeling _wanted_. An adjustment to a new sort of happiness, one that wasn’t accompanied by the constant worries of “ _what if_ ” or “ _maybe I shouldn’t_ ” or “ _best not to think about it for too long_ ”.

How exactly did one let go of a millenia’s worth of hesitation?

“And I believe telling Crowley how much I care for him is the right decision,” Aziraphale continued. “I really do. It’s just...well, between you and me, the decisions I’ve made lately have been a bit of a mixed bag.”

Aziraphale flushed a little at the thought of it. Yes, he’d made the right choice in the end. But before that he’d come awfully close to concluding a string of bad decisions that had nearly cost him everything. The conversation he’d had with Crowley at the bandstand all those months ago still haunted him. It lurked in the corners of his mind, a constant reminder that Aziraphale had almost lost Crowley forever, had almost lost _everything_ because of the decisions he’d made. 

“Although really, I suppose that’s even more reason to tell him. Crowley deserves nothing but the truth from me. And I think…”

The words tangled up in Aziraphale’s throat, and he took a deep, steadying breath before he continued.

“I think Crowley loves me too.”

There. He’d said it. The notion he’d spent so many years deliberately shoving down and trying not to think about, the one he’d never been able to voice to another living being. 

“I don’t know why, or how I could ever possibly deserve it after everything I’ve put him through but...there it is. So why has it been so _bloody_ hard to tell him I feel the same?”

Aziraphale paused.

“My apologies for the coarse language, my dear. I’m just feeling rather put upon at the moment.”

Fortunately, his tiny audience didn’t seem offended, and Aziraphale continued. 

“I managed to stop the Apocalypse, after all. This part should be simple! I don’t know why -- I say, are you still listening?” 

The mouse’s attention had wandered further down from Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale followed her gaze, and realized he’d been absentmindedly tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat. It was a completely futile gesture. There was simply no way to sit back against a tree and not have rumpled clothes, no matter how many times he anxiously straightened the fabric. The mouse was watching the motion curiously. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, and ran his hands down his front one more time before finally stilling them. “Old habit, that...” 

He trailed off. Something in those words had sparked half of a thought, and Aziraphale felt his eyebrows draw together in concentration as he struggled to find the other half somewhere deep within his fuzzy, slow-moving mind. For a moment it seemed like he might get distracted by a passing leaf that floated down from the treetop above, but he stubbornly forced himself back on track. What was it he had said? 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, eyebrows lifting in sudden realization. 

His small companion perked up, eyeing him with renewed interest.

“I’ve fallen back into all of my worst old habits, haven’t I?” Aziraphale said. “Doubting myself, getting all worked up over whether or not I’m following a perfect plan…” 

Aziraphale supposed he might feel chagrined...but found he actually just felt _relieved_. Relieved, and a little amused. The answer was so obvious, why hadn’t he realized it before? Ah, but wasn’t a bit of concentrated self-deception just another old habit, a left over from a time when Aziraphale hadn’t known how else to survive? 

“But that’s not who I am anymore,” Aziraphale said slowly, examining each one with the sort of care he might give to a fragile first edition. “Or at least...that’s not who I have to be. Not now. Not with Crowley.” 

Was it really so simple? Aziraphale thought perhaps it was. Surprisingly simple, but he’d been too preoccupied and too wrapped up in his own anxieties to realize it until now. After millenia spent picking apart each of his emotions, trying to determine which ones were _right_ and which ones were _wrong_ , it felt shockingly novel to think he might be able to just trust his instincts right from the start. 

And his instincts, for once, had never been more sure. Crowley had made it perfectly clear he liked Aziraphale exactly as he was, that he wasn’t about to abandon Aziraphale the moment he made a mistake. Life with Crowley wasn’t about survival -- it was about the choices they made.

“We _chose_ to be on our side...just like I can _choose_ to tell Crowley I love him.” 

Aziraphale felt buoyant with the thought of it. It put him in mind of a tethered hot air balloon, and he thought that if the tether snapped he might just float all the way back to the bookshop.

That might not be a bad idea, really -- the afternoon was passing and Crowley would be back before too long. 

“You really have been most helpful,” he told the mouse, who blinked at him. “I can’t thank you enough. If you’d like to accompany me home, I’m sure I could rustle up something better than stale biscuit crumbs.”

The mouse seemed intrigued by this idea. Unfortunately, that plan fell apart rather quickly when Aziraphale attempted to rise to his feet. He made it about halfway before he wobbled backwards in a most undignified fashion, but the mouse was polite enough not to comment.

“So much for that, then,” Aziraphale told her. “Better sober up first.”

That plan too, was destined not to come to fruition. Aziraphale concentrated for a moment, but only succeeded in hiccuping. 

“Ah, that’s right,” he chuckled. “No magic at the moment. Good Lord, what a predicament. Crowley is never going to let me live this down.”

Perhaps it would be best to just sit back and enjoy the effects, and wait it out long enough to make the trek back to the shop. 

This third plan felt like the winning one. Besides, it wasn’t as if Aziraphale needed much of an excuse to stretch out his legs and bask in the afternoon…

* * *

An hour later, Aziraphale realized that this plan was just as doomed as the first two. If anything, the brownies’ potency had grown even _stronger_ as time had passed. But he wasn’t bothered, as it was really _quite_ the interesting experience -- like being drunk, only...fluffier, he supposed. Really, he wasn’t sure why he didn't indulge in this particular pastime more often. In fact, he thought, he might have to repeat this whole experiment again in the near future. Preferably while at the shop, surrounded by snacks. He really was getting peckish. 

“I think it’s time to call Crowley, don’t you?” Aziraphale directed the question toward the mouse, who was currently half-asleep on top of some clover. She stretched lazily, which Aziraphale took as her agreement. 

He fumbled his mobile out of his pocket and, after a few failed attempts, managed to hit the right keys in the right order to ring Crowley’s number. 

“Hey, angel. What’s up?”

There was the noise of rushing wind in the background, which assured Aziraphale that Crowley was indeed already in the Bentley on his way back to London. The sound of Crowley’s voice filled him with such an immediate rush of warmth and affection that Aziraphale felt almost dizzy with it. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something to the effect of _‘Crowley, it’s so good to hear your voice, and I’m so looking forward to seeing you this evening’_ but all that came out was --

“Crowley!”

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Crowley spoke again.

“Is everything all right?”

Crowley sounded slightly worried. Well, that wouldn’t do at all. 

“I’m perfectly well, my dear, I’m just slightly -- oh, what’s the word -- _incapacitated_ , at the moment.” That wasn’t exactly the word he’d wanted, but it would have to do. “I’m afraid I can’t make the trip back to my shop on my own...could you be a dear and come pick me up on your way back into town?”

Crowley started speaking very quickly then. Aziraphale blinked, his fuzzy mind struggling to parse through the sentences. Eventually he managed to catch “miracle” among the jumble of words.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I don’t have my powers at the moment, remember? All used up.”

Hadn’t he said that already? Awfully forgetful of Crowley to bring it up again. 

Crowley was asking a series of rapid questions now. Or at least, Aziraphale thought he was. He did hear variations of “ _What--_ ” and “ _Where--_ ” but honestly, it was all a bit of a Crowley-sounding blur. 

Aziraphale’s mind was drifting. Crowley would come collect him from the park soon, and then they would be together. Oh, how Aziraphale had missed him! And wasn’t there something else Aziraphale was going to do?

He let out a little gasp as he remembered -- of course, he was going to tell Crowley he loved him!

“ -- angel?” came out of the mobile. Crowley’s voice was higher-pitched than normal, although Aziraphale wasn’t sure why. Hopefully it was because Crowley was just as pleased about coming home as Aziraphale was about him arriving. 

“Crowley, my dear, there’s something I simply must confess,” Aziraphale declared. He sat up a straighter against the tree trunk, suddenly feeling full of conviction. “I --”

Beep. 

The sounds from the other end of the line abruptly cut off. Aziraphale lowered the mobile from his ear and looked at it, confused. The screen flashed a brief image of a drained battery, then went black. 

“Well...drat,” said Aziraphale. He poked at the screen experimentally, but nothing happened.

“I suppose that’s for the best,” he told the mouse, who’d been watching the entire conversation with interest. “Emotional breakthrough aside, I should probably wait until my thoughts are a tad more composed before I confess.”

It was starting to get colder as the afternoon slid into evening. A brisk wind blew past, shaking the leaves over Aziraphale’s head, and he pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. He gestured at his waistcoat pocket, and the mouse happily obliged; she scampered over his lap and curled up into his pocket, a small gray ball against the soft fabric. 

“I know mice aren’t usually keen on snakes, but Crowley really is _such_ a darling,” Aziraphale assured her. “I’m certain the two of you will get along fabulously.” 

And with that, Aziraphale closed his eyes and settled back against the tree to wait. It was a little chilly, but he found it didn't bother him as much as it normally might. If anything, the cool autumn air felt refreshing. Pleasing, even. 

He drifted for a while, listening to the sounds of the wind moving through the trees around him. He really couldn’t have said how much time had passed before, suddenly, he heard a voice, quickly accompanied by the feeling of warm hands pressed against his face.

“Aziraphale? Angel, are you hurt?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Crowley was crouched down beside him, his hands moving up and down Aziraphale’s frame as if searching for something, his face full of worry. That was odd. What was Crowley so concerned about? Well, whatever it was, Aziraphale would make sure to fix it. He suddenly found it very, _very_ imperative to find a way to soothe the anxious lines on Crowley’s face.

“Of course I’m not hurt, dear,” Aziraphale said quickly. A bit of the worry in Crowley’s expression eased at hearing Aziraphale speak, but not nearly enough. So Aziraphale continued. “I’m having a lovely day, in fact. How are you?”

He reached out a hand and smoothed back a piece of Crowley’s hair that had fallen over his face. Crowley froze at the touch, and at the question, blinking at Aziraphale in a way that was both very confused and rather adorable. 

“I -- what?” Crowley sputtered. “You -- wait, what? You’re okay?”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale agreed. “Tip-top. Fit as a fiddle.” He accompanied the statement with a little wiggle of his shoulders. “Tickety boo, even.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him, although the suspicious effect was rather ruined by the obvious relief in his voice when he spoke.

“Wait, are you _drunk_?”

Aziraphale chuckled. He just couldn’t help it. The entire situation was just so amusing. 

“No, but I am rather...altered at the moment.” Aziraphale drew his eyebrows together in thought, trying to come up with the right explanation. “Elevated? No, that’s not it. Peaked?”

He pondered it for another few seconds.

“Ah!” He exclaimed, excited to have finally found what he was looking for. “ _High_ , that’s it. I’m _extraordinarily_ high. Are you familiar with cannabis, Crowley? Surely you’ve heard of it.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. He started to speak, but nothing came out. Then he threw back his head and started to laugh. His legs seemed to give out abruptly, and he flopped backwards onto his backside in the grass across from Aziraphale, still laughing uproariously. 

Aziraphale didn’t know exactly what the joke was, but Crowley’s mirth was more than enough to start him laughing as well. 

“For fuck’s sake angel, you nearly scared me to death,” Crowley finally managed to get out. He took off his glasses and wiped a few tears of mirth from his eyes. “I thought -- well, I don’t know exactly _what_ I thought had happened, but I definitely didn’t think I’d find you stoned out of your mind in the park.”

He peered a little more intensely at Aziraphale. Crowley’s face was very close, and Aziraphale’s senses were suddenly inundated with the faint scent of woodsmoke and cloves that drifted over from Crowley’s skin. 

“You look properly debauched all right, your pupils are huge,” Crowley continued, amused. “Just fancied a smoke all of a sudden, hmm?”

“ _Debauched_ is a little much,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound affronted. He didn’t think he was especially successful. Everything felt so agreeable at the moment, it was difficult to get too worked up over Crowley’s teasing. “And it was brownies, actually.”

A brilliant smile broke out over Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale felt his heart start to beat a little faster. 

“Of course it was,” Crowley said fondly. “And you can’t sober up?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He wanted to fill Crowley in on exactly how his afternoon had taken such an interesting turn, but the thought of trying to turn all of those details into words was rather overwhelming. 

Crowley must have caught that in Aziraphale’s expression. He rose to his feet and offered a hand to Aziraphale.

“You can fill me in later,” he said. “Come on, you bloody hedonist, you. Let’s get you home then, shall we?”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled, shakily, to his feet. He wobbled a bit and nearly fell over, which sent them both laughing again. 

“Here, angel,” Crowley chuckled, and gently maneuvered his arm around Aziraphale’s, holding him steady. “Think you can make it to the Bentley?”

“I believe so,” Aziraphale said cheerily. He could feel the warmth of Crowley’s skin through the sleeve of the black blazer, and once again he picked up that faint woodsmoke-and-cloves scent. The afternoon was turning out even better than Aziraphale had expected. Unexpected happenings did have a way of working out lately, and all thanks to Crowley.

Aziraphale still had one more unexpected plan of his own, of course. And this time, when the right opportunity presented itself, Aziraphale was going to take it. He wouldn’t hesitate, and he wouldn’t doubt himself, and he would tell Crowley exactly how much he loved him.

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s arm a little tighter as the world swam pleasantly around him. The first order of business, however, was getting back to his shop. Preferably with a stop along the way for something to eat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Crowley POV as he shepherds his angel home in the Bentley like a drunk girl in an Uber.
> 
> I took a bit of a swerve with this chapter, I hope you enjoy it! I cherish any and all comments, I’d love to hear if there’s a part you particularly liked ❤️
> 
> Thank you to caffeinefire for reading it through and giving me feedback, it was very much appreciated! Also thanks as always to my dear charliebrown1234 for her edits and for the hours and hours of brainstorming and collaborating. Those are some of my favorite hours!
> 
> I hope you will stayed tuned for the next chapter and all of the hijinks therein! We are getting extremely close to Aziraphale's confession, but there's still a bit more pining to be done in the meantime :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional drug use this chapter, although Aziraphale is still enjoying the effects of Chapter 4! I wanna quell any anxieties upfront by letting ya'll know that at no point does Aziraphale experience any unpleasant effects or bad vibes -- it's nothing but shenanigans and good vibes here!

**_France, 1754_ **

Crowley leaned back against the wall, mostly hidden in the shadows of his corner seat in the inn. There was a plate of food in front of him, but he paid it no mind. His attention was fully occupied by the scene playing out on the other side of the expansive room -- specifically, the sight of Aziraphale thoroughly thrashing a group of French soldiers in some sort of card game. 

The frustrated grumbles of the soldiers were getting louder and louder with each round of cards, and their faces grew redder and redder with each round of drinks.

Aziraphale’s expression, however, remained as pleasant and serene as an angel on a cathedral fresco, which seemed to only make the soldiers even more agitated. Still, the drinks were having an obvious effect on Aziraphale too. Obvious, at least, to anyone who knew Aziraphale as well as Crowley did. A pink flush had crept up over his cheeks and ears over the last half hour, a charming contrast to his layers of light-colored clothing. Aziraphale’s movements were loose, easy, and he’d removed his lavishly embroidered coat and pushed the frilly sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. As Crowley watched, Aziraphale studied the cards in his hand, while he loosened the fabric of his cravatt, exposing a sliver of skin at his neck. 

Crowley cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat, looking away. It wasn’t like he was _gawping_ at a bare forearm, he told himself. He was just very aware of his surroundings, that was all. Anyone with his keen, demonic mind would have catalogued those details, it was just part of being _observant_. 

The group of soldiers let out a particularly noisy groan. Crowley looked back over to see Aziraphale sweeping the pile of money in the middle of the table toward him.

“There’s no disputing a winning hand,” Aziraphale said cheerily as the soldiers walked away, cursing under their breath. “Better luck next time, perhaps!”

Crowley took that as his cue. He waited a moment longer, until Aziraphale was fully distracted with putting his winnings away in his bag, then crept up behind him.

“Bit scandalous, don’t you think, using heaven’s power to win a card game?” he murmured. 

Aziraphale jumped in his seat, startled, but as he turned around his face lit up with a wide smile. 

“Oh, Crowley!” he exclaimed. Up close, the pink on his cheeks was even more noticeable, and Crowley blinked at the sudden warm intensity of Aziraphale’s attention. “You gave me a fright, dear boy. How long have you been here?”

In one quick motion, Crowley turned the chair next to Aziraphale around, so he could sling one leg over and sit with his elbows propped up on the chairback in front of him. 

“Long enough to see you embarrass those men out of a week’s pay,” Crowley said approvingly. “Is that Gabriel’s agenda for this century? Teach mankind humility one losing game at a time?”

Crowley expected Aziraphale to puff up indignantly (and fetchingly), the way he often did when Crowley needled him. Instead, to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale laughed delightedly and clapped Crowley on the shoulder. 

“Of _course_ not, can you even imagine? As if Gabriel would even know how to play _jeu royal de la guerre_.”

Aziraphale chuckled and took a long drink from his glass. Judging by Aziraphale’s playful mood and animated movements, Crowley had a feeling that glass was but one in a long line of drinks Aziraphel had already put back that evening. 

“And for your information,” Aizraphale continued. “I didn’t use any miracles. I happen to be _very_ good at cards.”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin. 

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.” 

Aziraphale wiggled a little in his seat, clearly very pleased with himself as he took another sip of his drink. 

Crowley leaned farther over the back of his chair and raised an amused eyebrow. 

“And winning a bundle of loot, is that all part of the ineffable plan?”

Aziraphale did look a little sheepish at that, but regained his composure quickly enough.

“If you really _must_ know,” he said airily, “those soldiers were not very nice men, even by _your_ standards. And the money will be anonymously donated to the local orphanage tomorrow morning.”

“So what you’re saying is that, really, this is all perfectly in line with heaven’s best interests?”

“ _Exactly_ so, my dear, precisely,” Aziraphale said with another satisfied wiggle of his shoulders. “I’m so glad you agree.”

Crowley did agree. In fact, his agreement with the current moment was resounding enough that he was forced to glance away. Aziraphale’s expression was so open and fond, his blue eyes all but sparkling, and Crowley was far too close to convincing himself that Aziraphale’s delight stemmed from the pleasure of Crowley’s company, rather than from his drink and recent success at the card game. 

Crowley covered it smoothly enough, looking toward the innkeeper as she passed by and signalling that he’d like one of whatever Aziraphale was drinking. 

“I suppose a celebration is in order then,” Crowley said. He turned back to face Aziraphale, his composure back in place. “Seems like you’ve already started on that though, mm?”

Aziraphale blushed, then chuckled.

“I suppose I have been rather indulgent tonight,” he admitted with a smile. “But this champagne is just so delectable, I’ve found myself quite unable to resist.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in sudden realization.

“Oh, have you tried champagne yet, Crowley? I just know you’ll adore it!”

Crowley _had_ tried champagne. He’d found it both very enjoyable and very useful for temptations. Somehow, though, he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it. Aziraphale just looked so eager to share his newfound discovery that Crowley found himself saying,

“No, I haven’t. It’s really that good?”

The next thing Crowley knew, Aziraphale was pushing his own glass forward into Crowley’s space, beaming at him all the while. 

“Well then you absolutely _must_ try it. Here!”

Crowley was left speechless as Aziraphale’s warm fingers brushed over his own, firm and insistent as he pressed the glass into Crowley’s grasp. 

Well, no way to go but forward then, Crowley supposed. Words still eluding him for the moment, he lifted the glass and drank. The rush of bubbles and sweetness on his tongue was matched only by Aziraphale’s enchanted expression.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked.

The setting sun was shining through the windows of the inn, casting the room with a golden glow that seemed to settle on the tips of Aziraphel’s curls, on the edges of his pale cheekbones.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “It is.”

* * *

**_The Present_ **

So yes, Aziraphale’s penchant for indulgence was well known to Crowley. In fact, it was one of the things Crowley had always found endearing about Aziraphale; the angel had always thrown himself headfirst into pleasure. It was entirely un-angelic, and wholey Aziraphale. Good food, drink, clothes, entertainment -- all of these were on the table when it came to Aziraphale’s tastes, which tended to run rather on the decadent side of things. Sometimes Crowley wondered if there were _other_ pleasures that Aziraphale might care to indulge in, but he generally stopped himself from going down _that_ mental road for too long.

Still, the angel did manage to surprise Crowley every now and again. For example, by getting high as a bloody kite in St. James’ Park. 

“All right angel, get in,” Crowley said, opening the Bentley’s passenger side door and gently maneuvering Aziraphale inside. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said as he slid onto the seat. “Goodness, we’re at the car already?”

Crowley chuckled. The short walk to the Bentley had actually taken a half hour. Aziraphale had insisted on taking multiple detours in order to investigate a variety of flowers, birds, and insects that had caught his attention. Luckily, patience was a skill that Crowley had spent a very long time cultivating. And besides, Aziraphale’s excited observations about how the setting sun hit a butterfly’s wings just so, or how the color of a particular flower matched his favorite painting in the National Gallery exactly were really quite charming. 

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” remarked Crowley, and Aziraphale hummed in agreement. Crowley double checked that all of Aziraphale’s limbs were inside of the vehicle, then shut the door before making his way around to the other side. 

The Bentley’s engine purred as soon as Crowley took his own seat. He turned toward Aziraphale, about to say something about getting the show on the road, but the words stuck in his throat. Aziraphale was _beaming_ at him. Aziraphale’s face was full of the same emotion he’d been displaying when he’d been peering at the “wonderful flowers” and “stunning butterflies” of a few minutes ago. This time, however, Aziraphale’s smile caught Crowley completely off guard. Crowley wasn’t a flower or a multicolored butterfly or a vivid yellow finch, so why was Aziraphale looking at _him_ with such a delighted expression?

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to say something, but he just continued to stare at Crowley, his smile never wavering. 

“Uh,” Crowley said, finally compelled to break the silence himself. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“It was very good of you to come collect me,” Aziraphale replied, his eyes soft and intent. “I knew you would, of course, but still...thank you.”

“ ‘s not a problem,” Crowley mumbled, his cheeks growing warm. “Besides, I would hate to miss out on this particular--” he gestured vaguely up and down Aziraphale’s form, “--misadventure. And I didn't even have to tempt you into it first. I’m really quite proud of you.”

Of course, Crowley’d had no idea what was really going on when Aziraphale first called him. A dozen different possibilities, each more horrible than the last, had presented themselves to him one by one as he’d rocketed into London. By the time he reached the park he’d been half out of his mind with worry, mental images of Aziraphale discorporated or worse bouncing around his head. Still, he didn’t hold it against Aziraphale -- Crowley’s deep relief (and subsequent amusement) once he’d realized the reality of what was going on had been more than worth the worry. The whole situation _was_ bloody hilarious. 

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat at Crowley’s praise, clearly pleased with the situation. He began to hum a tune to himself, looking out the window as Crowley steered the Bentley away from the curb and onto the road. Normally, Crowley might flick the stereo on without a second thought, but Aziraphale was now quietly singing (a soft little _bum bum bum_ sound that didn’t seem to follow any particular melody) and Crowley couldn’t bring himself to cover it up with the radio. 

They drove for a few minutes, Aziraphale gazing happily out the window while Crowley shot sideways glances at him as often as he thought he could manage. Aziraphale had a small, winsome smile on his face, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming rush of affection. 

Damn, but it was good to be home. Crowley had enjoyed his gardening expo, certainly, but he’d also found he still missed Aziraphale ferociously. Missing Aziraphale was a feeling that had followed Crowley around for millenia, to the point where it had become a familiar companion. Before, it was a companion he had both cherished and cursed, something he often tried his best to ignore, no matter how it continued to doggedly trot behind him. 

Now...now it was different. This time, Crowley knew Aziraphale would be waiting for him in London, eager for his company. Missing Aziraphale no longer felt like an extended effort in futility, a lost cause. Now, it had purpose. There was a pleasant expectation alongside the emotion, like a flowering bud that was _this_ close to blooming. 

Crowley stole another glance toward Aziraphale, but this time Aziraphale was already looking in Crowley’s direction. 

“I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nearly ran the car off the road. Hell’s bells, had weed given Aziraphale the ability to read minds? That would be the _last_ thing Crowley needed. But no, that was impossible to even think about, and Crowley was reassured when Aziraphale didn’t elaborate further. Aziraphale just kept watching Crowley with a placid, contented smile. 

“Ngk,” said Crowley. “Missed you too, angel.” Then, eager to move the conversation away from a place where Crowley might reveal a lot more than he intended, he added, “And how are you doing? The devil’s lettuce still treating you well?”

Aziraphale looked confused. 

“The devil’s...oh!” His expression changed to abrupt realization, and he laughed. “How clever. Yes, I must say I’m enjoying myself rather splendidly. Especially now that I’m with you.”

Crowley squirmed in his seat. He knew strong drink tended to make Aziraphale a bit more forward with his affections, and clearly something similar was going on here as well. Once more, he reminded himself that Aziraphale was warm by nature -- outside of potential bookbuyers, anyway. And Crowley was his friend - of course Aziraphale would occasionally direct that energy his way. It didn’t mean anything more. Even so, it was good to hear, and a warmth stole over Crowley despite the chilly autumn air rushing past outside the car. 

“That’s, um--” Crowley cleared his throat. “That’s good, then.”

“Mm, indeed,” Aziraphale agreed. His eyes went distant, just for a moment, as if considering something. He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and closed it again with a slightly perturbed look. 

“What?” Crowley asked, a bit nervously. He wasn’t sure he could handle another barrage of compliments. 

“There’s just something I thought I might tell you,” Aziraphale said dreamily, clearly still a little lost in thought. “Not sure if this is the right time, but I’ve been saying that a lot lately. To myself, at least…” 

He trailed off. 

“...and?” Crowley prompted. He was having a hard time staying focused on the road ahead of him.

“...and maybe it’s true that there’s no time like the present,” Aziraphale continued. “In which case, I simply must say -- CROWLEY STOP THE CAR!”

The brakes squealed in protest as Crowley slammed them down. A half second later, a cacophony of honks sounded from behind them as the Bentley skidded to a stop in the middle of the road. Aziraphale started to pitch forward, but Crowley threw an arm out and managed to keep Aziraphale from hitting the dashboard face-first.

“What?!” Crowley nearly shouted, looking around in confusion. “What is it?” 

Aziraphale pointed calmly out the window, apparently oblivious to the honks and shouts of the disgruntled drivers on the road around them.

“Could we please stop in at that bakery? I’m absolutely _famished_.”

Someone behind the Bentley rolled down a window to yell an impressive series of curses in their direction. Aziraphale started, and turned around in his seat to look at the long line of stopped cars.

“Oh dear,” he mumbled. Then, still twisted around to face out the rearview window, he moved his hands in an exaggerated pantomime of apology. 

“I’M -- VERY -- SORRY,” he shouted, enunciating each word as though it would help get his message across through the window. 

The other driver seemed uninterested in his attempt at an apology and responded with an obscene gesture and another long sounding of the car horn. 

Aziraphale turned to face Crowley, shocked.

“Well I _never_ \-- how rude!” he sputtered, indignant. 

Crowley chuckled. 

“I could turn him into a muffin, if you’d like, and save us the trip to the bakery all together.”

Aziraphale somehow managed to to double down on his shocked expression, adding a little gasp and punctuating the sound with a little push on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Crowley you _wouldn't_ \--” he started, then caught sight of Crowley’s grin. “Oh, you’re teasing me. You are absolutely incorrigible.”

Aziraphale’s admonishing tone was completely spoiled by his fond smile, and Crowley felt his own grin grow even wider. 

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” Crowley turned his attention back to the car, releasing the brakes and turning them toward the curb. The bakery Aziraphale had pointed out so intently had a few parking spots out front, and Crowley maneuvered the Bentley into the nearest one. There were a few final honks as the backlog of cars started moving again, but Aziraphale had clearly already dismissed the incident from his mind. 

“I’d really prefer a chocolate croissant if they have them, or two, or a lemon muffin.” Aizraphale’s eyebrows were drawn together in thought, as though he were making a decision of the utmost importance. “Although I wouldn’t turn down a danish either, especially if they’ve got the ones with blackberry jam…”

“How about I go in and pick you out a selection, yeah?” Crowley offered. If Aziraphale kept listing out every pastry he might enjoy then they’d be here all night. “Think you can stay in the car and out of trouble for ten minutes?”

Aziraphale sat up straighter and set his shoulders, the very model of serious propriety. 

“Of course I can, I’m an angel,” he said primly. “Angels don't get into trouble.”

Then he winked.

Crowley laughed.

“Oh, angel,” he said. “What would I do without you to keep me on my toes?”

“Spend less money on pastries, I imagine.”

“Now, _there’s_ the truth.”

Crowley stepped out of the car and shut the door behind him, starting toward the bakery. After a moment’s thought, he doubled back a step to lean down and tap on the passenger side window. After a moment of awkward fumbling, Aziraphale managed to roll it down.

“I mean it,” Crowley said. “Don’t go wandering off.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, yes, I heard you. Now, please don’t dawdle, or I’ll be forced to accompany you inside. I’m really _quite_ hungry, you know.” 

His words were accompanied by a flippant little shoo-ing motion in the direction of the bakery. 

“You’re bossy when you’re stoned, you know that?” Crowley noted, amused, but Aziraphale was already rolling the window back up.

“That goes for you too, by the way,” Crowley told the Bentley. “The angel stays _in_ the car, out of harm’s way, where we can keep an eye on him.”

The Bentley’s headlights flicked on and then off again. Crowley decided to take that as an affirmative. 

The smell of bread and sugar greeted Crowley as he walked into the bakery,, as did a middle aged woman in an apron behind the counter. Crowley gave her a friendly nod of acknowledgement before he prowled up and down the pastry display cases. All the while, he cast regular glances over his shoulder through the bakery’s front window to spy on Aziraphale sitting in the Bentley. Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye and waved cheerily in return. 

Miraculously, the bakery offered all of the pastries Aziraphale had mentioned and then some, which made Crowley’s task relatively easy. He pointed out the items he wanted, about a dozen in all, and the baker bagged them up one by one. As she started to ring them up at the checkout counter, Crowley took the opportunity to check up on Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale was still sitting in the car, only now he appeared to be having an animated conversation with someone. The Bentley, probably. Crowley suppressed a smile as he moved to face the counter, taking some money out of his pocket. It seemed like he’d had a good deal of practice at that today, the whole suppressing-his-smile business, but overall he thought he’d done remarkably well keeping his affections under control. Really, he should be commended -- Aziraphale had been particularly adorable but Crowley had still managed not to reveal any of the emotions that he preferred to keep under lock and key.

Crowley finished up his transaction, taking the bag of pastries with one hand while he stuck a generous wad of cash into the tip jar with the other. Mission accomplished. Now he and Aziraphale could head back to the bookshop and wile away the rest of the evening together, maybe listen to a record or two... 

That train of thought was abruptly derailed when Crowley turned from the counter and saw an unmistakably _empty _Bentley.__

__“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Crowley groaned._ _

__He hurried out of the shop and looked down the street in both directions, but Aziraphale was nowhere to be found._ _

__“I _told_ you to keep an eye on him!” Crowley hissed at the Bentley. _ _

__The Bentley swished its windshield wipers once, unrepentant._ _

__Crowley rubbed at the bridge of his nose. A blazed angel, set loose upon the streets of London. Aziraphale didn’t seem able to perform miracles at the moment, but Crowley still had no doubt that Aziraphale was still thoroughly capable of stirring up plenty of mischief if he set his mind to it._ _

__“Oh, we are definitely going to have a talk about this later,” he muttered at the car. “Now, fess up, where is he?”_ _

__As it turned out, Crowley didn’t need to wait for an answer. A moment later he heard a familiar voice, muffled through the traffic. He followed the sound around the nearby street corner, and immediately spotted Aziraphale, standing beside a flower cart about half a block down._ _

__Aziraphale was holding a particularly vivid bouquet, and he smiled widely as Crowley approached._ _

__“Hello, dear boy. I know you wanted me to stay in the car, but when I caught sight of all this--” he gestured at the colorful display of flowers, “--I’m afraid I couldn’t resist.”_ _

__Aziraphale at least had the self-awareness to look a little bit abashed, and Crowley felt his irritation immediately melt away. Honestly, it was borderline embarrassing how he could never stay frustrated with Aziraphale for long before his inevitable amusement took over._ _

__“Well, can’t say I blame you,” he said, looking appreciatively at the assorted blooms. “Besides, you not following directions has worked out rather well, as a rule. You know, what with you defying the glorious, eternal powers of Heaven in order to save the world.”_ _

__“I did do that, didn’t I?” Aziraphale puffed up a little with pride. “Good for me.”_ _

__The owner of the flower cart, a young man who had been scrolling on his phone, looked up at that last exchange with a perplexed expression on his face._ _

__“D &D campaign,” Crowley told him. “Heaven and Hell and monsters, and all that.” The young man looked reasonably convinced at that, and was happy enough to ring up the flowers that Aziraphale had selected. _ _

__Transaction completed, they headed back toward the Bentley. Azirapahle started to thank Crowley profusely, but Crowley quickly cut him off._ _

__“Yeah yeah, enough of that,” he said dismissively. Crowley was about at his threshold for compliments today, and eager to move the conversation away from anything that might make him have to fight back any more undignified blushing. “Tell me, what made you decide on these flowers in particular?”_ _

__Thankfully, Aziraphale took the bait, obviously thrilled at the opportunity to share his thoughts on the matter._ _

__“ _Well_ ,” he began enthusiastically, holding up the bocquet. “ _This_ flower reminds me of those flowering vines on the wall in Eden, you remember the ones I mean, surely--” _ _

__“Yeah, I remember,” Crowley said softly. He hadn’t thought about those flowers in years, and the unexpected memory hit him with a rush. The vines used to bloom under the moonlight, on nights when the air hung thick and warm amongst the lush green landscape. Aziraphale had pointed them out to Crowley on one particularly humid night. _‘Aren’t they lovely?’_ , Aziraphale had sighed, _‘I thought you might like them.’_ Crowley hadn’t been able to do more than nod, overwhelmed by the easy-going affection in Aziraphale’s voice, an angel telling a demon that he’d seen something beautiful and wanted to share it. _ _

__Crowley cleared his throat._ _

__“What you’ve got here are cymbidium orchids,” he said. “They are a similar sort of shape as the ones in Eden, aren’t they?_ _

__Aziraphale nodded._ _

__“Yes, exactly! I’m so glad you agree.” He started pointing out other flowers, turning the bouquet round and round in his hands as he spoke. “ _This_ one is the same color as that butterfly we saw earlier. The daisies, well, everyone likes daisies, don’t they? No explanation needed.” _ _

__Aziraphale continued his inspection of the bocquet, directing Crowley’s attention now to some brightly colored, smaller flowers._ _

__“Now _these_ remind me of the cover of my favorite Emily Dickinson collection, the golden ones remind me of how it feels in my chest when I see you, and these purple flowers are the same color as my favorite lavender macarons--”_ _

__“Wait a minute, hold up,” Crowley interrupted. He’d stopped dead in his tracks without even realizing it, and Aziraphale bumped into him. “What did you just say?”_ _

__Aziraphale looked at him, perplexed._ _

__“Lavender macarons?” Aziraphale supplied helpfully._ _

__“No, no, before that.” Had Crowley actually just heard what he _thought_ he’d heard?_ _

__The conversation was apparently equally as baffling to Aziraphale, and his eyebrows drew together in confusion._ _

__“The daisies?”_ _

__“_ No_, not the blasted daisies.” Crowley ran a hand over his face. Honestly, sometimes it felt like the universe at large was playing some sort of joke on him in particular. “Something about your chest?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“What, is there something on my chest? Oh, I’d hate to get any stains...” He looked down at himself and began brushing at his waistcoat, but only succeeded in sending a dusting of pollen down his front. 

“Well, _that_ didn’t help at all,” he muttered. 

“Here, we can trade.” 

Crowley plucked the flowers from Aziraphale’s distracted grasp and pressed the bag of pastries into his hands instead. The sudden transition from bouquet-to-bag seemed to both startle and amaze Aziraphale; he blinked down at the pastries, then up at Crowley, then back down at the pastries again. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale opened the bag and eagerly peered inside. “Are these for me?”

The foot traffic on the sidewalk was starting to stall as the other pedestrians were forced to move around the spot in the middle of the walkway where the two of them stood. Crowley side-stepped closer to the curb and gently steered Aziraphale along with him. The movement gave Crowley a convenient opportunity to hide his smile, but he couldn’t quite keep the sound of it from his voice when he spoke. 

“Yes, angel, those are for you. Now come along, the car’s not far.” 

They walked the final steps to the Bentley as Aziraphale pawed through the pastry bag and made appreciative _oooh_ and _ahhh_ sounds at the selection that Crowley had procured for him. 

“I’m not sure which one I want to try first,” he said thoughtfully. “Although perhaps I should wait til we’re back at the shop…”

“Well, we’ll be there in about ten minutes,” Crowley said. 

He opened the passenger door and Aziraphale slid clumsily down onto the seat, his attention still wholly fixed on the bag in his hands. Once again, Crowley made sure Aziraphale was entirely contained within the vehicle before shutting the door and striding around to the driver’s side. Apparently that was all the time it took for Aziraphale’s resolve to crack; as Crowley climbed into his own seat he could see that Aziraphale had already pulled an enormous muffin out of the bag and was looking at it imploringly. 

“I’ve decided I cannot wait any longer,” Aziraphale informed him. “Would you mind if I…?” He gestured with the muffin, waving it around a little as though to illustrate how unbelievably temping it was. 

“Look, I couldn’t care less when you eat them,” Crowley said as he started the engine. “Just don’t get crumbs in my car.”

“Of course not, dear, I’ll be _very_ careful.” 

With a sideways glance at Crowley as though wanting to make sure he knew _exactly_ how careful he was being, Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and placed it on his lap with a flourish. He then began carefully breaking off small, fastidious mouthfuls and eating them, and Crowley turned his focus towards the road. 

A few minutes passed in companionable silence as Aziraphale ate his pastry and Crowley wove through the streets toward Soho, until Crowley noticed out of the corner of his eye that Aziraphale’s movements were becoming unusually furtive. That was odd enough to pull Crowley’s attention from the road, and he glanced over just in time to see Aziraphale drop something into his waistcoat pocket. 

Wait, what?

Crowley glanced sideways again in order to confirm what he’d seen. Yes, indeed, Aziraphale was surreptitiously tearing off bits of muffin and dropping it into his pocket. Or at least Aziraphale seemed to _think_ he was being surreptitious; angling himself slightly away and holding his handful of crumbs close to his chest as though that would completely hide the activity from Crowley’s attention. 

“Um,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked up and blinked, his hand frozen in place just above the top of his pocket.

“Yes, Crowley?” he said, the very picture of guileless innocence. 

“What are you--”

A pair of small, wiggling whiskers stuck out of Aziraphale’s pocket, and Crowley felt his initial question die as a host of other immediate concerns rushed in to replace it.

“Are you--” Crowley started, then stopped. He’d really thought he’d hit a lifetime peak of absurdity during Armageddon, what with the aliens and Atlantis and all, but he was finding this moment to be somehow even more surreal than any UFO. “Angel, is there an...animal in your pocket?”

Aziraphale managed to look simultaneously sheepish that Crowley had managed to see through his brilliant subterfuge, and pleased that he now had an opening to discuss a topic he was clearly very excited about. 

“I _had_ planned on waiting until we got home to make introductions, but I suppose now is as good a time as any,” he said, apparently unable to stop himself from punctuating his words with a few excited shoulder wiggles. 

Under normal circumstances, Crowley might have been hung up for a moment on the details of Aziraphale’s phrasing (not _‘until **I** got home_’, but _‘until **we** got home_’; did Aziraphale see the bookshop as Crowley’s home? It was a very pleasant thought). Instead, Crowley was completely fixated on the tiny, glossy whiskers that were now poking out from the fabric of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

“Aziraphale, what on _earth_ \--”

“I met her in the park today and she was _most_ helpful,” Aziraphale continued. “So I thought I would bring her along with us to the bookshop where I could thank her properly, perhaps get her some lovely cheese.” 

Then, Aziraphale reached into his waistcoat pocket and gently scooped out a small, furry creature, which he held out in front of Crowley on the palm of his hand.

Crowley gaped at it. 

“Isn’t she lovely?” Aziraphale remarked happily, moving his hand in closer. “She has the softest fur, really, you should touch it, she wouldn’t mind. Here, just touch her head -- _Crowley_ , that was a stop sign!”

“I -- you -- _what_?” Crowley sputtered over the sound of several other cars honking loudly around them. “Yeah, it’s a little hard to concentrate on driving when someone is shoving an animal in my _face_ \--”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly and turned his attention away from Crowley. 

“Don’t mind Crowley, dear,” he said, and gently stroked the gray fur. “He just gets terribly fussy whenever anyone criticizes his driving.”

“This is unbelievable,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “I leave you alone for a week and now you’re best friends with a rat.”

Aziraphale gasped, his expression that of utmost affront.

“ _Crowley_ , she is a _mouse_!” Aziraphale protested indignantly, moving his hand as if to shield the mouse from Crowley’s slanderous words. Then he quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with rats, of course, they’re perfectly lovely creatures, but she is a _mouse_ and you’re really being rather _rude_.”

Crowley couldn’t help it; he started to laugh. He laughed and then, quite unable to stop himself, he laughed some more, until he was forced to take off his glasses and wipe his eyes. This seemed to mollify Aziraphale significantly, and it wasn’t long before he was laughing as well, though still carefully holding his hand very still, lest the movement jostle his small companion.

“You’re absolutely right, angel,” Crowley said finally, once he’d gotten himself back under control. “Please accept my most gracious apologies, and I promise that when we get back to the shop I will take it upon myself to miracle up the most delicious gouda known to man. Or mouse.” 

The mouse’s whiskers perked up at that, and she crept to the edge of Aziraphale’s palm so Crowley could give her head a tiny scratch with one fingertip. 

“Well, I should _hope_ so,” Aziraphale said primly. “And you are forgiven, of course. Forgiveness is a virtue, after all, and I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to address the mouse.

“Don't let His Holiness over here fool you,” he told her. “He once refused to go to The London Theatre for fifty years after he overheard a director say that Oscar Wilde was overrated.”.”

“Well,” Aziraphale replied, his face coloring. “I’m not one to hold a grudge against people I _like_ , at least.”

The rest of the short trip to the bookshop passed in relative normalcy, save for a brief moment of excitement after the sun went down. Aziraphale, now unable to see clearly enough to select another pastry from his bag, flicked his halo on to get a better look. The sudden explosion of radiant light nearly sent Crowley careening off the road, and seemed to startle Aziraphale himself just as much -- he let out a loud, vivid expletive and then clapped his hand over his own mouth. The light abruptly winked out, and Aziraphale apologized profusely as Crowley laughed. Oh, he was going to _mercilessly_ tease Aziraphale about that once the angel had sobered up. 

They walked through the door of the bookshop a few minutes later, Crowley fumbling both the bouquet of flowers and the pastry bag in his arms. Aziraphale held the mouse aloft in one hand as he strode in, narrating their progress as Crowley trailed behind, grinning. 

“This is where I keep the classics,” Aziraphale explained, gesturing. “Well, what most people would consider to be the classics, anyway, my _actual_ classics are mostly on scrolls and I keep those upstairs. I would get far too many questions on how exactly I obtained a personal letter from Marcus Aurelius…”

Aziraphale continued his tour as they wound around the bookshelves, pointing out this and that and noting a few volumes he was particularly proud of, until they made their way to the backroom.

“Now this might be my favorite spot in the shop, to be honest,” Aziraphale told the mouse. “Lots of good memories back here, you know. Don’t you think so, my dear?” 

Then he turned to Crowley with such a genuine, beaming smile that Crowley blushed. 

“Yeah, angel,” he said, turning his face away under the guise of arranging the bouquet of flowers into a vase. “It’s my favorite part of the shop too.”

Possibly his favorite part of the whole blessed universe, but Crowley was content to keep that as a private observation. 

Aziraphale turned back to the mouse.

“Now, would you like something else to eat, or…?”

The mouse turned around in a circle on Aziraphale’s palm, and yawned.

“Ah, quite right,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “You must be tired. Here, I think this should be comfortable enough.” 

He lowered his arm, and the mouse stepped delicately off of his hand and onto the armrest of the worn sofa, covered by the corner of a soft throw blanket. She turned around in a circle once more, then lay down, curling into a perfect little circle with her tail wrapped around her tiny body. 

Crowley placed the bag of pastries on the end table, then ran his hands up and down his arms. The day had started off unseasonably warm, but now that the sun had gone down a noticeable chill had crept into the bookshop. He shivered. 

“Angel, you think we could--” he started, intending to ask about lighting a fire in the hearth, but that thought was abruptly evicted when he turned around and saw Aziraphale moving toward him with a purposeful expression on his face, crowding into Crowley’s space. 

“Oh I’m sorry my dear, I know how you are about the cold,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “I’d planned on having the shop nice and toasty by the time you arrived back in London but, well, the day did get away from me... Here, this should help.”

The next thing Crowley knew, Aziraphale had pulled off his tan overcoat and dropped it over Crowley’s shoulders. Then Aziraphale’s _hands_ were on him as well, maneuvering Crowley’s arms into the sleeves and smoothing out wrinkles in the fabric. 

“I -- what --” Crowley spluttered. 

Aziraphale smiled fondly and adjusted the lapels while Crowley’s mouth hung open.

“There, that should tide you over until we warm the place up.” Aziraphale looked very pleased with himself. 

Crowley was suddenly frozen in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Aziraphale’s coat hung loose on his thin frame, the sleeves trailing down just past his wrists. It was a stark difference from the tight-fitting clothing Crowley was used to, and he felt nearly engulfed by it, but in a pleasant, comfortable sort of way. The coat was heavy and warm -- _warm from Aziraphale’s body_ , Crowley thought numbly. Aziraphale was standing so close, close enough that Crowley could lean forward just a few inches and press the length of his body against Aziraphale’s. Then he could feel the intoxicating warmth directly from its source, and he would never feel cold again--

Crowley’s dangerous imagining was broken when Aziraphale abruptly turned away, yawning widely. Aziraphale brought up a hand to his mouth as though startled by it. 

“Goodness,” he said. Aziraphale glanced over at the mouse, still dozing peacefully on the arm of the sofa. “It seems you have the right idea, little one.” 

Aziraphale walked over to the sofa and sank heavily down onto the cushions with a contented sigh.

“You know, I’m feeling much less...altered than before. I think it’s nearly worn off entirely. I’m quite tired, though...is that normal?”

Crowley chuckled. 

“Yeah, angel, pretty normal. And it was a rather eventual afternoon, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale agreed cheerfully. Then, with just the faintest touch of apprehension creeping into his voice, “Oh, I do hope I wasn’t too much trouble, was I?”

Aziraphale’s expression was such a fetching mix of affectionate charm and bashful self-consciousness that Crowley wanted to take Aziraphale’s face into his hands and kiss him soundly. Trouble indeed. 

“Nah,” Crowley said instead. “You’re never too much trouble. Not for me, anyway. Maybe you should do it again sometime.”

“You know what? Maybe I will,” Aziraphale mused. Then he yawned again, even longer this time. 

“You could always go to sleep,” Crowley suggested. He knew exactly what the response would be to _that_ , but he was still pleased at the dramatic, disgusted face Aziraphale pulled. 

“All right, all right,” Crowley conceded. “How about we listen to a record, then?”

Aziraphale was much more interested in that idea, so Crowley took a few minutes to select a vinyl and start it spinning on the record player. Once that was done, he ignited the fireplace with a snap, and started to move toward the armchair.

“You could sit next to me,” Aziraphale blurted out, words coming out in a rush as though he hadn’t entirely planned on speaking them at all. He blushed, faintly. “That is, I mean, if you’d like. There’s plenty of room, unless you prefer the chair, then--”

“No, no, that’s...fine,” Crowley stuttered, surprised. It wasn’t like it was a novelty for them to sit together on the sofa, as it had been happening more and more in the past few months, but it wasn’t usually something that Aziraphale _requested_. Crowley gulped. “I’d...I’d like that.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well...good, then.” 

The first notes of the dreamy music started to play at the same moment that Crowley dropped down onto the sofa next to Aziraphale. He left a decent amount of space between the two of them, choosing to press against the arm of the sofa where the mouse slumbered. It didn’t last, however -- as they sat in companionable silence over the next half hour, listening to the music, Aziraphale slowly started to move. First he would slump over slightly and then adjust to sit back up, then he would squirm a little as if to get more comfortable, but every small movement ultimately brought him closer and closer to Crowley, until there was hardly an inch left between them. Then, Aziraphale tipped his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. He might have looked asleep, but he was still gently tapping one foot up and down to the beat of the music. 

Crowley’s breath caught in his throat, and he forced himself to breath normally. Yes, they had sat close together before, but always seemingly by accident or happenstance, and yes their legs had touched before...but this time Aziraphale had _asked_ for Crowley to sit next to him, and this time Aziraphale had _moved_ closer to him, until they were pressed side by side, and the deliberate intention of it all made Crowley wonder….But no, of course not. Aziraphale might not be actively _high_ anymore, but drugs did tend to make one chummy. That’s all it was. Still...if Aziraphale could be so bold…

Crowley took a deep breath and, before he lost his nerve entirely, closed the rest of the small gap between then. It was just a tiny movement, just enough so that their shoulders brushed, but even so Crowley felt a sudden rush of nerves that maybe, somehow, he had overstepped.

Aziraphale opened one eye and looked over at Crowley. Then he smiled -- a soft, contented expression -- and closed his eyes once more. 

A rush of emotion stole over Crowley, sweet and soft and undeniable. He’d loved Aziraphale from afar for so long, and loving him up close was better than he ever could have imagined. There was a twinge of the old hurt there too, sure, but the thought of Aziraphale not reciprocating all of Crowley’s feelings in full had turned from a stinging wound to more of a familiar, pleasant ache. It was still _Crowley_ that Aziraphale had chosen, at the end of the world and beyond it, and it was still _Crowley_ who was wrapped in Aziraphale’s coat and pressed against Aziraphale’s side. 

There was a small scratching sensation against Crowley’s arm, and he glanced down just as the mouse scampered up his sleeve and onto his shoulder. The mouse twitched her whiskers, looking over at Aziraphale, then back to Crowley, a knowing sort of expression on her small face. 

“That obvious, hmm?” Crowley murmured. She blinked at him before settling down on his shoulder, curling into a compact ball once more.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale mumbled, half-asleep, turning to face Crowley without actually opening his eyes.

“Nothing, angel.” 

Aziraphale mumbled something else that Crowley couldn’t make out. Then he dropped his head onto Crowley’s unoccupied shoulder. The emotion in Crowley’s chest expanded, filling his lungs and his limbs until he felt nearly drunk with it. He started to catalogue the moment, noting every detail and sensation...then stopped. It was an old habit, lingering from a time when his moments with Aziraphale had been few and far between. Then, he’d needed to file away those precious memories so he could pull them out later when the loneliness and the aching heartsickness crept up on him. 

But that wasn’t the case anymore, was it? He could have these intimate moments with Aziraphale again tomorrow. Or next week, or next month. Crowley didn’t need to hoard them, he could just...enjoy them. And yes, he might occasionally wish things were a little different still, and that he could tell Aziraphale the whole truth of how he felt, that he could kiss Aziraphale again and again and be kissed in return. But even so...things were good. More than Crowley could have ever hoped for, more than he deserved, and he didn’t think he would ever tire of this new life,where he spent time with Aziraphale nearly every day. 

_We’re on our side now._ Crowley mouthed the words to himself. _Our side_. 

Oh, and a mouse’s side, apparently. Crowley nearly laughed, but held it in, lest he disturb his sleeping guests with the movement. A mouse sleeping on one shoulder and an angel on the other -- hell’s bells. It was a good thing Crowley had already severed his ties with Hell, or else this would have been enough to ruin his demonic image entirely. 

Crowley smiled, and closed his eyes. If everyone else was getting some shut-eye, he supposed he might as well give in and join them…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I've made up for my long absence by posting this absolute BEAST of a chapter (7.4k words holy shit!). Just one more to go!! If you enjoyed this chapter I'd love to hear your thoughts :D


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